Obviously the first thing to be done was to make certain that I was indeed on an island, so I proceeded to take stock of my surroundings. I noticed that, except for the rough patches on the water which caught the wind, the surface was comparatively smooth, and there was no sign of a current. Walking a few yards to the right, I saw that the line of the old river and this strip of unknown water converged, leaving little hope in that direction. I therefore turned about, and started off to my left front. Evidence that the cereal crop had been carted quite recently was plentiful, for there was short, fresh stubble, cart tracks, and the impression of horses' hoofs. This pointed to the encouraging fact that I was not on an island, horses and carts not usually being transported by barge or aeroplane. I had not followed the tracks for more than fifty yards when they turned straight towards the water. The next minute I barely stifled a yell of delight, for there, staring me in the face, was a sort of pontoon bridge, stretching away into the darkness. On closer inspection, I found it to be composed of bundles of brushwood which were held together in some mysterious manner, and appeared to lie on the water. The surface of the bridge was in very bad repair and, as some of the top bundles of sticks were missing or pointing upwards at an angle, progress was very slow; but, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, I got along at quite a good pace. Once it seemed that I should have to swim a short distance, but I found it to be unnecessary, as only the top layer of the bundles was missing. Nearing the other side, I made out a factory building of some sort, with a high chimney, a little way from the end of the bridge, and heard the occasional bark of a watch-dog. Try as I would, I could not move an inch without causing a number of sticks to crackle loudly—it was almost as bad as crawling under the heap of sticks the morning before. Fortunately the wind must have drowned any noise made, or carried the sound away, for, though the dog continued to bark intermittently, it cannot have been aware of my presence.

Skirting the factory, I went across country, avoiding roads and houses like poison. The land was very low and flat and the dykes very numerous, sometimes whole fields being practically inundated. The only things that tended to relieve the monotony were the solitary gaunt willow trees, most of them mere shells of their former selves, which stood out from the misty darkness, black and threatening, like grim sentinels.

Everywhere was water, water, water. Every few seconds I was up to my waist in it. Often I tried to jump a narrow dyke and misjudged the distance, or got a bad "take off," owing to the softness of the ground; this usually resulted in my falling with a splash into the middle. I think the most aggravating thing of all was to make a really good jump and land on the other side, just beyond the water-line, on all fours, only to find that I had not enough impetus to remain there, as the ground was sloping. Sometimes I was able to save myself by jabbing my stick into the ground, though, more often than not, this was impracticable, and my hands could find nothing firmer to catch hold of than a few tufts of grass, which almost invariably gave way, causing me to do a graceful but involuntary backward dive into the dyke. As constant exercise of this sort is very tiring and the weight of water contained in one's clothes greatly hinders freedom of action, my progress was necessarily rather slower than usual. A little after midnight the ground became harder, and I soon found myself once more on a moor, wandering along a narrow sandy track, among deep heather and broom bushes. Just as I was getting a little drier and it seemed as if the watery nightmare was over, I ran into a series of peat bogs, many of them more dangerous than those I had encountered my first night out.

I found the best way to cross a narrow strip of marsh was to make a rush to the firm ground, as these tactics did not allow enough time for my feet to sink in very far. Once the little track I was cautiously following ended abruptly at the edge of a particularly watery-looking bog, which not only barred my way in front, but also curved round on both flanks. In order to avoid this cul-de-sac it would have been necessary to make a wide detour, the accomplishment of which would have involved the wasting of much valuable time. Selecting a point where this strip of marshy ground appeared to be the narrowest, I retreated a few steps, gathered myself together, and, after a short run, attempted to take the bog by surprise and get across before it was quite ready to receive me. Wallowing towards the other side, I felt my feet sinking deeply into the decayed peaty moss, which gurgled expectantly. I was almost over when suddenly, in a second, I sank almost to my waist. Immediately throwing myself on my face, I scrambled forward, and digging my stick into the firm ground in front, pulled for all I was worth. I was almost free when my poor stick broke off with a resounding crack, leaving the top half in my hands. This I again drove into the firm ground, and with a final effort, drew myself out. After a short rest, during which I mourned the loss of my beloved stick, I went on my way determined not to risk a passage over any deceitful bogs in the future unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Very soon the heather became scarcer, and once again I was among dykes and flat, misty, green fields.

For the next two or three hours I ploughed along towards the west, climbing over barbed-wire fences and wading through dykes, unless I was lucky enough to find a plank or small bridge spanning the latter. Scarcely perceptibly the darkness of the eastern sky changed to a dull cold grey and the landscape became clearer, revealing the bare motionless arms of several windmills stretching out into the clearer air, some distance away, in different directions. I roughly judged that I could not be far from the frontier. I might even have crossed it! Though I did my best to suppress undue optimism, this last rather improbable idea persisted in occupying my thoughts. It is true I had seen nothing recently on the way to arouse suspicion, but, owing to the marshy nature of the country, the guards might well be few and far between. The spirit of approaching dawn lent a faint tinge of colour to the lonely sweeps of white mist drifting slowly above the flat dark fields, and, settling down over the dykes, it commenced to unravel and piece together the ghostly confusion of dim blurred shadows and grossly exaggerated reflections crowding on the smooth, oily surface of the water, until they began to assume a definite shape. I could almost imagine that I was gazing at one of Tingue's early-morning landscapes, so unmistakably Dutch was the scene. Having got thus far no speculations of any sort could be indulged in, the price of uncertainty being too great. A distant village clock chimed four, each beat vibrating clearly in the still air. The crisis was at hand. Having successfully evaded capture during the eight preceding nights and days, the very thought of failure was unbearable, and compelled me to face the eternal problem of seeking adequate cover for the day at an earlier hour than usual. I therefore commenced a search without delay, experiencing the while, I am convinced, most of the alarming sensations felt by many fat, juicy worms who, having lost their burrows, are endeavouring to avoid contact with all marauding "early birds." The first glance revealed not so much as a bush or hollow willow tree in the immediate vicinity, but in a few minutes I made out a number of heaps of some sort away to the right, through the semi-darkness, so went to make a closer inspection, only to find that two rather broader dykes than usual sought to bar the way. When on the march a prolonged wetting is naturally most unpleasant, though the continued motion tends to dry one's clothes somewhat by shaking out much of the water. However, there being no alternative, I plunged into the first dyke, which proved to be quite deep, making it again necessary to swim a few strokes. I discovered a plank across the second one, and, passing over, found myself in a stubble field among a number of corn stooks. There being no better cover, I realised that I must hide in one of these little stacks, and chance my luck. The problem was to ascertain which part of the field was least likely to be overrun by people and dogs. A short inspection showed it to be very long and narrow, while several indications went to prove that the last of the crop had been cut near my original point of entry into the field; this was, therefore, the most desirable part to stay in, as it would naturally be the last to be carried. When people walk through a field they are most liable to wander along near the edges, or go through near the middle; consequently I chose a stook situated between the two, and about thirty yards distant from the end of the field. These heaps were rather too small to form a safe hiding-place, while an unusually large one would, in all probability, attract attention. It is reasonable to suppose that, should a general enlargement be effected embracing a number of stooks in one area, the result would be hardly noticeable. Removing my pack and coat, I set to work transporting two oat sheaves from each of the stooks in the next row for a length of about fifty yards, and adding them to the row in which my nest was planned to be. To avoid suspicion, I made the now depleted stooks up to their usual strength by again borrowing the same number of sheaves from each of the heaps in the row still further beyond. After repeating this strenuous operation a number of times the desired effect was produced, most of the heaps in my corner of the field now being considerably larger than the rest. Surely it was a good omen that my fat sheaves had devoured many of their leaner brethren, even though the number was not restricted to seven, as in Pharaoh's dream. The value of making oneself as comfortable as possible under adverse conditions cannot be over-estimated, for it not only stimulates the instinct of self-preservation, but renders one in the best condition to face the task ahead. Exposure and fatigue gradually wear down one's powers of resistance and bring with them the feeling that nothing matters. This is to be avoided more than anything, for it introduces the personal element into all reasonings, often forcing a decision against one's better judgment. Having chosen my special heap, I arranged it in such a way as to leave me as much room for movement as possible in the centre. As I exchanged the wetter sheaves for comparatively dry ones, the prospect of once again being warm was delightful and caused me to work with a will. Everything was almost completed, and I was just strewing a little dry straw on the ground between the sheaves, to serve as a mattress, when suddenly a man's voice hailed me, in unmistakable German, from a distance of about fifty yards: "Was machen sie da?" ("What are you doing there?"). Any doubts as to which country I was in were rudely dispelled. For a moment I was completely at a loss for an answer, then, bending down, I seized the loose sheaf (which was to have acted as a door to my palace) and placed it against the others, and, turning round, replied in low German, "I am only replacing these, which have fallen down."

Two workmen were standing just beyond the dyke, having evidently approached by an unobserved track, and were now gazing suspiciously at me. There being no more prostrate sheaves, I could not very well throw some down and then pick them up again, for the action would not have been at all convincing. I therefore had to content myself with smoothing the side of the stook in a business-like way, trusting that the uncertain light would not disclose the insanity of my actions. In a few seconds I moved to another stook, and was commencing to stroke the sheaves, when the same voices demanded, in a peremptory manner, to know what I was really doing. It was a case of bluff, so, busying myself with the heap, I snapped out, "Ach! go away, I have a lot to do." From the murmur that reached me it was obvious that this abrupt answer was puzzling them considerably. My position was still extremely unsafe, for border folk are usually of a very suspicious nature, which is intensified by the activities of war. At the best of times my excuse would have been feeble enough. Ordinary people don't usually rise at four a.m. for the purpose of walking round a soaking field stroking sheaves of corn. Besides, it was not unlikely that I was talking to the owner of the field. Whether they saw the brass buttons on my service jacket, or merely felt that I was wanted, I do not know, but they walked quickly towards the plank spanning the dyke which divided their field from mine. Directly they reached it one of them shouted something that I could not understand and was immediately answered by a third person, away in the mist. Once across the plank the men, after jabbering excitedly, came towards me at a quick run. Needless to say, it is extremely dangerous to be chased in bare country of this sort just when the day is breaking and the fields rapidly filling with workers, for once the alarm is raised the result is almost certain to mean capture. This time, however, it was not a matter of choice; my hand had been forced, compelling me reluctantly to play my last card. Picking up my pack and coat, I ran as only once before in my varied career—the night when I almost felt the pitchforks belonging to the little devils which chased me away from Stroehen camp. After running about a hundred yards, trusting to the mist and uncertain light to partially screen my movements, I turned aside and dived headlong into a stook, pulling the straw after me. In a few seconds my pursuers drew level and, to my intense satisfaction, passed on, breathing heavily. This is the last I saw of these two eager sons of the Fatherland. For all I know, they may be still following the excellent example afforded by "Charlie's Aunt."



CHAPTER XI

HOLLAND

I was now in a small wet stook, very cold and hungry. It being too light to risk a return journey to my carefully prepared nest, I had to take things as they were, and fell to wondering what it must feel like to be in a nice warm bed. The day proved to be one long nightmare. By careful observation I saw that a number of girls were working on the same crop, luckily at the other end of the field. They appeared only to be gleaning, but as it was quite likely this was preparatory to the carting, I resolved to keep a very sharp look-out to avoid being transfixed by a pitchfork and hoisted on to a cart. About breakfast-time a peculiar noise came from somewhere quite close, so, parting the corn carefully, I peered out in that direction. There, to my horror, were three men scything the rushes along a ditch which passed a few feet from me. The heap was a small one, and, therefore, to avoid detection, I endeavoured to put the best part of it between myself and them when they were working the closest to me. The completion of this operation naturally left me a little exposed on what I supposed to be my safe side. The men had almost passed, when I happened to look away from the ditch and saw a farmer standing beside the very next heap to mine, surveying the crop, his hands in his pockets. Somehow or other I wriggled back unobserved, and lay shivering with a combination of cold and fear. After half-an-hour's wait, I again looked out cautiously, and was relieved to find the man gone, though there seemed to be even more people in the neighbourhood than before. To add to my discomfort the breeze increased to quite a strong, piercing wind, which whistled in and out among the corn-sheaves until I felt very like an ice-cream in a refrigerator. Even then there were more trials to come, for, not only did the grain pour itself into my clothes, eyes and ears, but also mixed with the crop was a large proportion of barley or bearded wheat, which took a truly fiendish delight in slowly but relentlessly making its way up my sleeves or down my back. In this predicament it seemed almost unthinkable that I should ever have been so foolish in my schooldays as to pick barley heads and deliberately put them a little way up my coat-sleeves, the barbs downwards, expressly for the pleasure of feeling them crawling up my arms. Most of us do curious things in our youth!

Suffice it to say that, in spite of all convictions to the contrary, I was still in the heap, unmolested, when the afternoon resolved itself into evening and the labourers left for their homes. A little before nine o'clock, after a short but drenching shower, I could stand it no longer, so crawled out, damp and cold, but still almost glad to be alive. Looking towards the west in the fading light, I saw a large shape moving slowly from left to right through the country, roughly a couple of miles away. It could only be a sail. With a sinking feeling I realised that in front lay at least one more canal which must be crossed. (This canal, I afterwards discovered, was actually in Holland.) Although I did not feel desperately hungry, I somehow felt that I was getting near the end of my tether; my food, also, was dwindling and could not last more than two days at the outside, for I was already half-way through my emergency ration, a tin of Quaker oats. Strange to say, porridge is nothing like as nice eaten raw.

As soon as it was dark I started out, resolved not only to be extremely cautious, but, at the same time, to get as far as possible before the next day overtook me, time now threatening to form one of my most formidable adversaries. Travelling across country, I soon came upon a long road bordered by trees, so hid in the edge of some beans to make sure that all was clear before venturing across it. Almost immediately I heard voices not far distant, and presently a man on a bicycle rode past. When everything was quiet again I managed to step across the road unobserved, feeling sure that another danger point was past. The night being cold it may be imagined that I was scarcely overjoyed at finding it necessary to wade or swim through another short series of dykes; this was, however, the case. Drawing near to the dreaded canal, I noticed that on either flank, some distance away, were clusters of rather brilliant lights. Presumably this pointed to the fact that these lights were placed at points of special importance, such as strongly guarded bridges, in which case it seemed probable that the canal might form part of the boundary line. In order to avoid the slightest rustle which might attract attention, I rolled my raincoat and secured it over one shoulder, "bandolier fashion." I next covered the brass buttons of my tunic with mud, to prevent their reflecting the rays of a possible flashlight, and, after smearing some dirt on my face and hands, moved forward once more, prepared, in case of discovery, to make a dash towards the west regardless of the consequences.

In a few minutes I saw, by the even line of the higher ground in front, that I had almost reached the raised canal, and was just preparing to mount the short, grassy slope when I came upon a hard-worn narrow track running along near the edge of a rather wide dyke, which separated me from the embankment. The dyke being in the lee of the wind it seemed advisable to ascertain whether it was possible to cross by any plank or bridge which might be in the vicinity in preference to going through it, for, though one may be able to get into a dyke quietly enough, the getting out is a very different matter when the sides are steep and one's clothes full of water. Walking along this path very warily for about twenty yards, I was lucky enough to discover a plank leading across (for except for the faint silhouette of the top of the embankment against the sky, practically everything was hidden by the darkness). Though the plank bent threateningly I succeeded in crossing it, and crawled to the top of the rise. A glance revealed a broad, reed-fringed canal, reflecting little dancing lights on its wind-swept surface—the stars which had the audacity to peep out from between the clouds. I could hear the splashings of a water-rat actually swimming at that time of night for the fun of it! Quickly crossing the tow-path and parting the reeds, I followed its example, and, not waiting to remove pack, clothing or shoes, swam towards the opposite bank as silently as possible. It can only have been a few yards across, but I remember feeling almost as tired as if I had swum the Channel. This was the tenth night of my escapade, and the strain was certainly beginning to tell. As I was leaving the canal behind some wild duck rose from a dyke close by me, with much flapping of wings. If their desire was to frighten me they certainly achieved their object.

When, after an hour or more, I continued plodding along without seeing anything unusual, I could not help again wondering if I was still in German territory. My curiosity increased when two motor cycles with powerful headlights went by on what appeared to be a main road. I had not seen anything like that for weeks, so resolved to go along the road myself in the hope of seeing some other strange sights. Immediately on arriving there I had to take cover in a corner of an orchard to avoid another light, which was rapidly overtaking me. From this point of vantage I was soon able to see that the light was on a bicycle, and the rider not a tin soldier, complete with helmet and curling moustache, but a peaceably dressed young woman. Encouraged by the promising trend of events, I stole some apples and made my way, munching and shivering, towards a little group of houses, hoping to discover some writing which might prove which country I was in. Eventually I found a letter-box and feverishly endeavoured to decipher, in the semi-darkness, a long word printed in black letters on a white background. With a sinking heart I slowly made out the letters B—R—I—E. Was it necessary to read any further? Surely this was proof positive that I was still under the gentle sway of the Kaiser! What else could the remainder be but "fkasten," completing the German word for letter-box. With almost a feeling of resignation, I continued to wrest the remaining letters from the darkness. The expected F was a very peculiar shape. No, it was a V, after all! With every letter my hopes rose as I spelt out the remaining E N B U S. I do not profess to be a German scholar, but I do know that the word "BRIEVENBUS" does not adorn their letter-boxes in the ordinary course of events. Feeling vaguely happy, but still haunted by the first syllable of the word, I made my way further into the village. At first all seemed quiet, but presently I heard a couple talking near the entrance of a house. Creeping up as close as I dared in the deep shadow of the building, I strained my ears almost to dislocation to catch a few words of the conversation. The language they were speaking struck me as peculiarly ugly, and did not seem to lend itself readily to the uses to which they were undoubtedly putting it. The fact that they were not speaking ordinary German did not necessarily mean that the language was Dutch, for it might have been some border dialect. However, I could restrain myself no longer, so, walking up to the man, I addressed him thus in German, with as much nonchalance as I could command: "Can you tell me if I am in Germany or Holland?" He did not seem to grasp the question at once, which in itself was a good sign, though it lengthened my breathless suspense. I believe I would willingly have murdered him if, by doing so, I could have had the answer an instant sooner, for so much depended on it. All at once he straightened himself up and, in a surprised voice, replied, "Holland!"

I should never have believed that one simple word could have meant so much. The news so completely overwhelmed me that, for a few seconds, I failed to grasp its import. Then, springing forward, I seized and shook his hand so violently that it almost threatened to fall off, at the same time showering explanations at him in a hundred and one different languages, in the hope that he would understand one of them. Needless to say, at first the unfortunate Dutchman was rather perturbed at being so cordially greeted by some one he must have thought to be a dangerous lunatic at large, though I consider that he stood the ordeal very well. I think the girl was the first to really grasp the situation, for, to my surprise, she congratulated me in broken German, and insisted on shaking hands, too. In spite of the good news I was still wet, cold and hungry, and the prospect of again sleeping in a warm bed was very alluring. I therefore inquired the way to the nearest hotel, and was told to make for a larger village, some three kilometres distant. I asked if there was any possibility of my taking a wrong turn leading back into Hunland, and being assured there was none if I followed the main road, started off in the best of spirits. It was just like walking on air. My dreams of freedom had at last come true. Though it was after one o'clock, I encountered several people and each time inquired the way, thus making assurance doubly sure. I can hardly attempt to describe the strange exultant feelings which surged through me as I marched along, conscious of having left "Brother Bosch" behind.

Eventually, singing a marching song, I rounded a corner and found myself in a village street, almost opposite a house in front of which hung a sign, just distinguishable in the darkness: "Hotel Van Dijk." Regardless of the fact that I did not possess a cent, I proceeded to knock loudly on the front door. After a few minutes my efforts were rewarded by hearing an upstairs window open, and being told in Dutch to go away. However, my mind being made up, I persisted in making more noise than ever. Seeing his protestations were in vain, and evidently scenting something unusual, I understood "mein Host" to say that he would come down. My knowledge of the laws of internment of a neutral country being very limited, it behoved me to act with extreme caution if I wished to follow in the footsteps of brother escapers, whom I knew had preceded me to England.

Though I had committed no act of war, such as crossing the frontier carrying arms, I did not feel very sure of my ground. Therefore when the elderly innkeeper, holding a flickering candle, shot back the bolts, he found me wearing only a khaki shirt and grey flannel trousers, the soaking raincoat and tunic having been hurriedly secreted in my pack, so that he could not assert that I was in uniform when he first saw me, in case the subject should be raised later. As soon as he heard the facts of the case, the Dutchman motioned me to accompany him along the street, which I did wonderingly. I imagined myself shortly being interviewed by a fat, sleepy-eyed and pompous burgomaster, who would either fall upon my neck, or order me straight back to Germany. After half-an-hour's walk, when my guide halted beside a long wooden hut and knocked vigorously, I decided that there was nothing to fear in that direction, for no such distinguished person would deign to live in so humble a residence. Presently, in answer to our repeated efforts, we heard several grumbling voices, a door was opened, and I was bidden to enter. As soon as I was accustomed to the glaring gas-light, I experienced a considerable shock. Occupying the whole length of the room in which I stood was a double line of beds, mostly containing sleeping men, and from the walls hung many greenish uniforms, rifles and bayonets! On recovering from my first surprise, I turned to a fully dressed soldier I took to be a sergeant, who by this time, presumably, understood that I was an escaped "Inglesman," and asked him, in German, for an explanation. In the midst of his almost unintelligible reply I caught the word "Grenswacht" (frontier guard). Seeing that we were at cross purposes, the sergeant roused a man who spoke very fair English and acted as interpreter. I soon learnt that I was in the local headquarters of the Dutch Frontier Guard, and would have to remain there until seen by an officer the next day. This suited me only too well, so having duly impressed the fact that I was not in uniform, I retired to a bed arranged for me in the N.C.O.'s room, and commenced to pull off my wet clothes.

Meanwhile tongues had not been idle, and eager, curious faces began to peep at the "stray dog" through the half-open door. Just as I was about to turn in, curiosity could be restrained no longer; the room filled with noisy young fellows, who took up a position round my bed and proceeded to bombard me with questions. It was all so well meant that I endeavoured to give them a brief outline of my doings, in German. The idea of an Englishman speaking German was evidently quite beyond their comprehension, for, judging by many doubtful looks of astonishment, it seemed that the general impression was that I was a camouflaged Hun. As they all persisted in talking at once, I put an end to the argument by disappearing under the bedclothes. About ten o'clock the next morning I awoke, feeling stiffer than ever before, the slightest contraction of a muscle resembling the jerking of a rusty wire. However, when a soldier, seeing that I was awake, brought my breakfast, I sat up with remarkable agility and devoured every crumb. Never have I enjoyed a meal more. Every additional mouthful of the deliciously fresh Dutch cheese and new bread seemed to receive a still more exquisite taste when I thought of the Irish stew I had missed when standing behind my imitation wall at Stroehen. It was not until after a thoroughly good scrub and a cold bath that I could screw up enough courage to look at myself in a mirror, and, prepared as I was, the sudden reflection of the wild-eyed, bearded tramp considerably surprised me. A little before lunch, having obtained some dry underclothing, I was sitting on my bed, extracting a selection of barbed wire and splinters from my hands with a large needle, when a Dutch officer walked in to see the curiosity. He greeted me cordially in very good English, introducing himself as Lieutenant Hoffman, in charge of the local detachment of the Frontier Guard, and asked me to lunch with him at his hotel.

On the way thither I could not help being very impressed by the design and beauty of the village. The houses were mostly large, with spacious, well-kept gardens, the streets clean and the general atmosphere of the place spoke of great prosperity. Hoffman took me to a barber, who performed for a long time, but in the end turned out a comparatively respectable human being. At lunch I met another Dutch officer, also an English scholar, who, after hearing the latter part of my experience, told me that I must have actually walked along the German sentry's path, just beyond the canal, the night before. Having had no escaped prisoners in that district before, they had a disquieting idea that I should very likely be interned. I learnt that, in all probability, I should proceed to a larger town for further examination the following day, and gathered that, in the meantime, it would be advisable for me to remain close to my headquarters and refrain from wandering about by myself, the frontier being too close for safety.

Shortly after lunch the two officers entered the room, carrying a couple of sporting guns, and announced their intention of spending the afternoon at a canal on the frontier duck shooting, and said that I might expect them back about tea-time. Being a prisoner no longer the very thought of seeing grey-clad sentries standing at their posts appealed to me so much that I begged to be allowed to accompany them, deciding to run the small risk such a visit might entail. Hoffman was considerably surprised at my proposal, but said I could come at my own risk if I thought I had known him long enough to be able to take his word. He reminded me, at the same time, that one can easily step over a frontier line, intentionally or otherwise, and produced a loaded automatic pistol from his coat pocket as if to back up his argument, asking me to choose my course of action. For a few seconds I reasoned with myself and then accepted, it seeming perfectly obvious that Hoffman would never have shown his hand had he intended playing a crooked game. Just before starting the innkeeper lent me a civilian cap and overcoat, which gave me a sense of security and enabled me to set out with the others if not a perfect, at any rate a passable Dutchman.

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 only persons 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 standing beside 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 be smothered 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 ueber 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 practically nil in 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. However they 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 Stroehen. Two of them, Captain Harrison, of the Royal Irish, and Lieutenant C. F. Templar, 1st Gloucesters (since then, I regret to 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 of my 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 few guldens caused 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 through the 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 GIBBS ON THE WAR IN FLANDERS

I. The Battles of the Somme 6/- net

II. From Bapaume to Passchendaele 6/- net

III. Open Warfare 10/6 net

London: Wm. Heinemann, 21 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 Notes

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.

Issues fixed:

page 5—typo fixed: changed 'stacatto' to 'staccato' page 25—errata typo fixed: changed 'weis' to 'weiss' page 32—spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom' page 43—errata typo fixed: changed 'balolaika' to 'balalaika' page 47—errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein' page 51—errata typo fixed: changed 'Hammelin' to 'Hameln' page 55—errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein' page 75—typo fixed: changed 'Middlesessex' to 'Middlesex' page 103—spelling normalized: changed 'gaolbirds' to 'gaol-birds' page 111—spelling normalized: changed 'bathroom' to 'bath-room' page 126—typo fixed: changed 'Pupchen' to 'Pueppchen' page 127—typo fixed: changed 'farmhouse' to 'farm-house' page 152—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Stroehen' page 159—errata typo fixed: changed 'feasten' to 'fkasten' page 165—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Stroehen' page 167—spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom' page 171—typo fixed: changed 'uber' to 'ueber' page 172—typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Stroehen'

THE END