Presently we arrived at a bridge-head, where the Dutch guard turned out and saluted, when, it must be confessed, I felt a trifle nervous, being then almost on the frontier. The formalities over, we left our bicycles in the guardroom and, crossing the bridge, proceeded along the tow-path at the side of the canal. There, sure enough, were the grey-clad sentries, standing near their boxes along a little raised path, at intervals varying from one to two hundred yards. Seeing that our presence seemed to occasion considerable interest on the part of the sentries, I inquired the reason from one of my companions, and was informed that onlypersons in the company of Dutch officers were allowed where we were walking, in the neutral zone dividing the two countries. Curiously enough the water dog, whose duty it was to start the birds from among the reeds, was English and went by the name of “Tom.” Fortunately he was very obedient, for had he once crossed between the extenuated lines of grey men Tom would have afforded the Huns some moving target practice, which in all probability would have resulted in his contributing to a sausage machine. I am sure I do not know what I should have done if this had happened while I was with the party, for Tom, when feeling lonely, used to run straight up to me, wagging his stumpy tail and looking up with eyes which so plainly said that he was indeed glad to meet a fellow-countryman, for, though Dutchmen were kind enough to him, the scent was somewhat different.
Towards the end of the afternoon we came to a place where the frontier line gradually converged, running parallel to, and about twenty-five yards away from, the canal, just the other side of a dyke at the bottom of the embankment. It must have been somewhere here that an unseen hand had unconsciously guided me to safety through the darkness of the night before. I selected a particularly Hunnish-looking sentry, who was standingbeside a painted black and white box, with a long, wicked-looking and old-patterned bayonet gleaming above his slung rifle, and, hailing him casually, remarked that it must be weary work doing nothing, and inquired if he was tired of the war, to which he replied with a sullen “Ja.” Undismayed by his dismal expression, I inquired if they ever had any escaped prisoners in those parts. This time he did not deign to answer, but merely shook his head solemnly. By removing my coat I could have easily disillusioned him, but, remembering that a rifle bullet is not a thing to be trifled with, I refrained.
Feeling my triumph complete, I turned and limped away, still hardly able to realise that only a few hours before I had unknowingly paraded along the same little raised path which the Germans were so jealously guarding. Of all my escapes this was the most inexplicable. To what was it due? Certainly not to my own initiative alone. Man’s extremity is indeed God’s opportunity.
Supreme in the world of red tape, far above the ken of misguided mortals, lives an omnipotent being—the Censor. In imagination, he sits in a huge armchair, wreathed in tobacco smoke, casually sorting, from piles of manuscript, the sheep from the goats. The former are destined to besmothered in official stamps and coloured inks, while the latter are cast ignominiously into the gigantic waste-paper basket. Though this little sheep, in particular, may have a little of its wool shorn off, I trust that it may eventually avoid the rubbish heap. For this reason I must ask the reader to be contented with a very curtailed and disjointed account of the remainder of my wanderings.
In due course I was placed in a quarantine camp, to remain there until a given number of days should elapse, when, on being pronounced free from infection, I should be allowed to continue my journey through Holland. The camp contained a number of German deserters who, it appeared, crossed the frontier in this district at the average rate of one per diem, having for the most part arrived direct from the front, with every intention of leaving their beloved “Vaterland” behind for ever. They made no secret of the fact that they hoped to be able to emigrate to England or America as soon as it was all over. Several of them were N.C.O.’s, wearing the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross, to all appearances good soldiers whom their relentless system had forced to desertion rather than the terror of the British guns. The Germans occupied a separate hut, and were kept strictly to themselves.This probably saved a lot of trouble, for, judging by the spirited way they occasionally sang “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,” accompanied by an accordion, the spirit of patriotism and savage “kultur” still flowed in their veins. Doubtless the first German band to return to England will be composed of the most gentle peace and beer-loving Huns that ever visited our favoured shores. Whatever the nature of the welcome and guarantees extended to them by our English “Bolsheviks” (who even now have the audacity to advocate a policy of “shake and be friends”), their lives will not be at all secure when they come in contact, as they ultimately must, with Britishers who have been most brutally treated and forced to work as prisoners in the German salt mines, men who have come to know the truth of the saying, “Once a Bosch, always a Bosch,” during their stay of several years in Hunland. I feel genuinely sorry for the very few really nice Germans who certainly do exist (several of whom I met during my captivity). However, considering that their influence has been practicallynilin the War, on account of their being in such a minority, I suppose they will be bound to suffer with the rest.
The number of escaped French and Russian soldiers was surprising. Howeverthey must have had many excellent opportunities, while working in the fields near the frontier, to cross the dividing line. It did not take me long to discover three British privates, who were distinctly bored and very pleased to see me. The eldest was a South African, escaped from a reprisal camp, while the other two belonged to the Warwicks. Though little more than boys they had in all probability seen more of the hardships of life than many men of treble their age. Great excitement prevailed when, by dint of much cajoling, I managed to procure a mandoline from the town, for, though the meals were very much looked forward to and enjoyed, the rest of the time passed very slowly. It is not easy to play tunes to satisfy the cravings of different nationalities at a moment’s notice. A few Russians flung themselves about to the lilt of some of their rowdiest cake-walks, while the “Marseillaise,” seeming a universal favourite, was repeatedly called for. On the morning of the fourth day three weird-looking figures, wearing a queer mixture of ready-made Dutch garments, entered the camp with a guard. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I recognised some of my former companions at Ströhen. Two of them, Captain Harrison, of the Royal Irish, and Lieutenant C. F. Templar, 1st Gloucesters (since then, I regretto say, killed in action), were “old Contemptibles,” having been captured about the beginning of the War, while the third, Lieutenant J. Insall, V.C., R.F.C., had been in captivity two years. They had all made many previous attempts to escape, and consequently had sampled many German prisons, and now at last succeeded. Captain Harrison, I have since heard, was again captured, during the German advance in the spring of ’18, but was fortunately able to regain our lines the same night. Our delight at meeting again outside Germany was mutual, and, having so many notes to exchange, the time then passed much more rapidly. After various communications with the British authorities, we were successful at last in getting in touch with the British Minister at the Hague, who almost immediately obtained our release from the quarantine camp, to the unbounded astonishment of the local Dutch magnates.
Receiving an invitation to visit Sir Walter Townley (British Minister), I proceeded to the Hague, freed at last from the annoying formality of being continually escorted by an officer or guard. Imagine my pleasure at once more sitting down to afternoon tea in an English drawing-room. I shall never forget the kind thought and solicitude ofmy hostess, Lady Susan. I almost seemed to be in England.
Before catching my train back, I engaged a taxi and tried to see as much of the town as possible in the time. The driver understood but little of my directions; the sight, however, of a fewguldenscaused him to drive so recklessly that I thought my last hour had come. It seemed that we must be leaving the path strewn with luckless victims. Arriving at the Palace of Peace, where the nations had so unsuccessfully beguiled each other with “smooth words, softer than honey,” I succeeded in inducing my charioteer to come to a standstill. Alighting, a policeman informed me that the building had just been closed, but pointed out the highly ornamental metal gates, which, at the cost of 40,000 marks, had been presented by the Kaiser Wilhelm a few years before the War. Espying on them angels of peace carrying palm branches, I could contain myself no longer, so delivered an impassioned harangue to the astonished Dutchman on the subject of hypocrisy, in a mixture of German, French and Dutch. Presently, seeing a large crowd gathering around us, I concluded my remarks with a substantial tip, and signalling to “Mynheer Mercury,” was once more whirled into space.
The convoy, in formation, steamed throughthe neutral waters towards the open sea. On board were a party of women and children, proceeding from Germany to England for repatriation. Several of them must have been in Germany an exceedingly long time, for they could only speak broken English, while some of the children, having evidently been born there, could speak no English at all. Soon the ship began to roll gently in response to the ever-increasing swell. As the White Ensign fluttered happily from the stern, most of us took advantage of the still comparatively calm sea by parading along the deck in company with a British commodore, confidently straining our eyes to catch a first glimpse of the approaching escort; and it was, unfortunately, obvious that every one on board did not share our good spirits. As the disconcerting movements of the ship increased, the Anglo-German element, pale-faced and dejected, assembled amidships, and forming a small, huddled group, hastily commenced to put on their cork jackets and life-belts, evidently preparing for the expected impact of the dreaded torpedo. Just then, as the look-out, attracted by some specks of foam emerging from the grey, misty horizon, signalled that a number of ships were fast approaching, they could stand the strain no longer, so, breaking into a weird German chant, they wailed disconsolately.Could it be that the victorious German fleet, of which they had so often heard, was at this very moment bearing down upon us? Perish the thought! The specks of white grew larger with alarming rapidity. It was not until the British destroyer flotilla was almost on us that we could discern, behind each dividing mass of curving foam, the sinister and capable grey shapes of Britannia’s watch-dogs moving swiftly, in perfect harmony with sea and sky. As if inspired by one mind, our guardians turned about, and silently taking up their respective positions at a reduced speed, they passed with us safely along the King’s Highway!
THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
PHILIP GIBBSON THE WAR IN FLANDERSI. The Battles of the Somme6/- netII. From Bapaume to Passchendaele6/- netIII. Open Warfare10/6 netLondon: Wm. Heinemann, 21 Bedford St.OTHER RECENT VOLUMESTHE SWORD OF DEBORAH.By F. Tennyson Jesse. F’cap 8vo.3/- netA woman’s account of woman’s work in France.THE LOVERS. By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. F’cap 8vo.2/6 netA true love story of the war.A DIARY WITHOUT DATES.By Enid Bagnold. F’cap 8vo.2/6 net“Here is a book that will live on.”—Morning Post.London: Wm. Heinemann, Bedford St.
PHILIP GIBBSON THE WAR IN FLANDERSI. The Battles of the Somme6/- netII. From Bapaume to Passchendaele6/- netIII. Open Warfare10/6 netLondon: Wm. Heinemann, 21 Bedford St.
PHILIP GIBBSON THE WAR IN FLANDERS
I. The Battles of the Somme6/- net
II. From Bapaume to Passchendaele6/- net
III. Open Warfare10/6 net
London: Wm. Heinemann, 21 Bedford St.
OTHER RECENT VOLUMESTHE SWORD OF DEBORAH.By F. Tennyson Jesse. F’cap 8vo.3/- netA woman’s account of woman’s work in France.THE LOVERS. By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. F’cap 8vo.2/6 netA true love story of the war.A DIARY WITHOUT DATES.By Enid Bagnold. F’cap 8vo.2/6 net“Here is a book that will live on.”—Morning Post.London: Wm. Heinemann, Bedford St.
OTHER RECENT VOLUMES
THE SWORD OF DEBORAH.By F. Tennyson Jesse. F’cap 8vo.3/- net
A woman’s account of woman’s work in France.
THE LOVERS. By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. F’cap 8vo.2/6 net
A true love story of the war.
A DIARY WITHOUT DATES.By Enid Bagnold. F’cap 8vo.2/6 net
“Here is a book that will live on.”—Morning Post.
London: Wm. Heinemann, Bedford St.
Transcriber's NotesThe list of other volumes in the collection has been moved from the front of the book to the end.Obvious typographical errors have been fixed. See the list below for details. The original errata in the book has been included.Issues fixed:page5—typo fixed: changed 'stacatto' to 'staccato'page25—errata typo fixed: changed 'weis' to 'weiss'page32—spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom'page43—errata typo fixed: changed 'balolaika' to 'balalaika'page47—errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein'page51—errata typo fixed: changed 'Hammelin' to 'Hameln'page55—errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein'page75—typo fixed: changed 'Middlesessex' to 'Middlesex'page103—spelling normalized: changed 'gaolbirds' to 'gaol-birds'page111—spelling normalized: changed 'bathroom' to 'bath-room'page126—typo fixed: changed 'Pupchen' to 'Püppchen'page127—typo fixed: changed 'farmhouse' to 'farm-house'page152—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'page159—errata typo fixed: changed 'feasten' to 'fkasten'page165—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'page167—spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom'page171—typo fixed: changed 'uber' to 'über'page172—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'
The list of other volumes in the collection has been moved from the front of the book to the end.
Obvious typographical errors have been fixed. See the list below for details. The original errata in the book has been included.