The fearful odour that our plunging around stirred up, naturally aided our nervous imaginings and it was undoubtedly the worst trial we had yet met with on the journey. I cannot convey the black despair which took possession of our hearts at the seeming hopelessness of all our efforts to find firm footing or a break in the landscape which might indicate a change in the nature of the country, a light, a voice, anything that would help to lift from our hearts the feeling of utter isolation from all human assistance and the seeming certainty that a few bubbles would be the only indication that we had struggled there. The darkness of the night intensified these thoughts. The rain did not matter. In fact it helped; for we were covered with the worse than water of the morass.

We looked at one another. We dared not speak. Anyhow, to do so was not our custom at such times as these. But each knew. A dull anger took possession of us at the thought of so inglorious an end after all that we had suffered to attain our freedom. With a prayer in our hearts we cast ourselves forward and somehow, sometime, found at last that we were safe and so flung ourselves down in our stinking clothes to lie like dogs in a drunken stupour that recked not of time or of our enemies.

We discovered an apple orchard here, in which the fruit was ripe. All the apples we had had up to date had been of the small and green variety. And even they, with the occasional milk, represented our all of luxury, so that these seemed indeed the food of the gods. We proceeded to fill up and after eating all that we thought we could, filled our pockets until they bulged, and started off, each carrying an armful of the fruit. At every step we dropped some. We stopped again and ate our surplus to make room. We refused to lose any of them. We came to a river, stripped, tied our clothes up in a bundle and proceeded to swim across, shoving the clothes ahead. I lost control of mine and they sank. I dived repeatedly in the darkness before I found them. The cargo of apples in the pockets made a bad matter worse. I should rather have drowned than have lost my apples. The possible loss of the clothes worried us very little. We had already decided in that event to waylay some German Michel rather than to go naked into Holland. However, by alternately dragging the bundle behind and swimming on our backs with it held high on the chest with one hand, we made the crossing, apples and all.

We were sitting in the shadow preparing to dress and wondering whether we were really over the border and if we could safely walk abroad, when we heard men walking toward us. We knew them to be Germans by the clank of the hobnailed boots which all our guards had worn. We had not a stitch on and our hearts were in our mouths. The patrol of six men stopped within five yards of us and then passed on within five feet and did not see us. We dressed quickly and went on, only to find a canal, for which we had to strip again.

Arriving at the other side; we dressed in the shadow of the bank, crawled to the top and plunged through the heather on to a road which we had almost crossed, when there came a cry of "Halt!" The patrol must have been standing in the trees where we had broken out from the heather, and very quietly, too, for we had lain for five minutes to make certain that all was safe. Evidently we were on or near the border if the number of patrols was any indication. We were not certain whether these were Hollanders or Germans. We made one big buck jump. "Fire, Gridley, when ready!" I left the entire knee of one trouser leg on a clutching thorn. But the patrol did not fire.

And then another canal. "I'm fed up with swimming to-night."

"So am I," agreed Simmons. "There are houses over there. There must be a bridge."

We slunk along the bank and to our joy found a small bridge. We dashed across it and debouched safely into a tiny village. Here we saw a difference, especially in the houses and the roadway. It was in the very atmosphere, a result no doubt of instincts made keen by the hunted lives we had led. On either side the fields stretched out, criss-crossed by a perfect network of small canals and ditches, which also served as fences.

We knew we were in Holland.

We deemed it unwise to show ourselves as yet, distrusting the sympathies of the Hollanders and fearful that they might give us up; and continued this policy until the next day. However, we took a chance and stuck to the road, a treat, indeed, to feel a firm footing after our weeks of travelling across country fields. This enabled us to shove thirty miles between us and Germany by morning.



It was not quite daylight when we espied a cow in a field at the roadside and gave chase. There was no other food in sight, so when our quarry threw up its tail and bounced off; we set out grimly to run our breakfast down. It was half an hour later that we corralled it in a corner between two broad ditches and were already licking our chops in anticipation; when we discovered that our cow was only a big heifer. Twenty-four hours earlier it would have been a tragedy. As it was, we only laughed. Such is liberty.

At this distance from the border we felt that we were safe from the Germans but were very much afraid that we might be interned. So we holed up in a farmhouse which had been partly burned down and built a roaring fire out of the remains of the charred furniture, placed some of the potatoes that were lying about in the fire, made a rough bed and went to sleep. Awakening later in the day, we raked the blackened potatoes out of the ashes and filled up on them. We were a fearful team; absolutely filthy, uncombed, unwashed, unshaven, and with the Russian's paint still thick upon us. Afterward we went down to the canal and endeavoured to knock the worst of it off. All danger was past now. We seemed to walk on air. We were once again British soldiers. And so fell to abuse of one another, finding fault and grousing; as all good British soldiers do when they are well off. I made out to shave Simmons. The terrible razor had never been sharp and lately had rusted from its travels. Simmons swore lustily and threatened me, ordering me at the same time and in no uncertain terms; to desist from the torture.

"Well, we want to go into Holland lookin' respectable. What'll they think of British soldiers if they see us? Have a heart!" I expostulated.

"Don't give a damn! I've had enough for being a Canadian; but I won't stand for this." I left him with his beard still on in patches and the bare spots bleeding angrily. As I had already committed myself, I had to bear in silence his purposely clumsy handling of that hack-saw. It was terrible, and Simmons, the scoundrel, laughed like a demon.



CHAPTER XIX

HOLLAND AT LAST

"No Intern"—Real Bread—Tipperary—A Real Time—The Splendid Hollanders—The Hague.

The diary summarizes the later events of that day:

"September tenth: Fine weather and in Holland. All our troubles are over. We struck a small town called Alboom where the people did everything they could for us. Plenty of food. Slept in a house!"

A man smoking a big pipe and wearing baggy breeches and wooden shoes came up and surveyed us with kindly amusement, as Simmons scraped at me with infinite gusto. He was a Hollander; not a "Dutchman." We soon learned that the latter was a term of contempt applied by the former to the Germans.

I asked him for some tobacco, which he readily gave to us from a capacious pouch. He waved his pipe at us in friendly fashion and said something which we took to be a question as to our identity.

"English," we said, and in desperation turned to our scanty stock of French: "Soldats; prisoniers."

"Engelsch!" he boomed. We nodded. He simply threw his arms round first one and then the other, so that I wiped the ashes from his pipe out of my eyes. He lumbered off and shortly returned with a counterpart of himself. He talked rapidly to his companion and waved his pipe. We made out the words "Duitsch," "Engelsch," and enough of others to know that he was telling our tale as he imagined it.

Our fears coming uppermost, we gave voice to them: "Intern?"

"No intern. Engelsch." The other took up the cry: "Engelsch goot! Frient." However our suspicions would not down.

The first man pointed out to the canal where a barge lay and made us understand that it was his. He wanted us to work our passage on it down the canal with him. They invited us by signs to go on board the barge for breakfast, an invitation which we joyfully accepted. We rowed out to the barge and sat down in the tiny cabin. The meal was plain. On the centre of the table was a loaf of brown bread, quite good enough it was true, but so reminiscent of the perennial black ration of the Germans that my gorge rose at the sight. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a white loaf on the shelf, the first in fifteen months. I caught Simmons eyeing it. We exchanged guilty looks but were ashamed to ask for it. They offered us the brown loaf and delicious coffee. I thought perhaps that if we exhausted the brown loaf the other might be forthcoming. I kicked Simmons on the shins and fell to on it, and, as opportunity offered, thrust pieces in the pockets of my tunic until, to our relief, they brought out the white bread, which we devoured to the last crumb. It was very good.

We filled our pipes in high contentment and went ashore, where a procession of enthusiastic villagers waited to escort us to the village. Men, women and children, wooden shoes and all, there were four hundred of them. The men all shook hands and pressed money on us. The women cried and one white-haired old lady kissed us both. The quaint little roly-poly children ran at our sides, a half dozen of them struggling to hold our fingers in their chubby fists.

The procession started off, the burgomaster leading, the two sailors and ourselves coming next. Some one behind dragged out a mouth organ and struck up Tipperary, and men, women and children all joined in. It was glorious. We sang, too, in English, and they in their tongue. The result was so ridiculous a medley that I smiled myself; but it made no difference. The spirit was there; we were happy.

Arriving at the village the burgomaster took us to his home and sat us down to a steaming breakfast, while a few of the chosen were invited in to watch us polish it off. The crowd remained outside, choking the road. Some of the bolder of the children crept slyly in the door, others peered shyly at us from the crack of it. And one little chap, braver than his comrades, clumped sturdily up to my knee, where he stood clutching it in round-eyed wonder and saying never a word for the rest of the meal, envied of his mates.

Not until we had leaned back, not contented, but ashamed to ask for more, did our hosts give vent to the curiosity that was eating into their vitals. An interpreter was found and they led us out to the road so that all might hear. The crowd flocked around while the officials questioned us. Many were the smothered interjections that went up from the men and exclamations of pity from the women as our tale unfolded. And the warm sympathy of their honest faces warmed our hearts like a good fire.

We started off on our triumphal course again. We were repeatedly invited into houses for something to eat. We accepted seven such breakfast invitations during the next two and a half hours and stopped only out of shame. We were still hungry. Every one gave us cigars, immense things, which projected from every pocket and which we carried in bundles under our arms. There was no refusing them. They were the insignia of the entente. And the coffee! The good, honest, Holland coffee with no acorns in it! I doubt if our starving bodies could have carried us many days more on the uncooked roots we had been living on. The motherly housewives, in their Grecian-like helmets of metal and glass that fit closely over their smoothed hair like skull-caps, bustled merrily about, intent only on replenishing our plates and cups, full of a tearful sympathy which was as welcome as their food.

Later in the day the officials took us to the police station at ——. We became very much alarmed again. They read our thoughts and a subdued murmur of: "No intern, no intern," swelled up. The local burgomaster came to us. His first words, and in good English, too, were: "Have something to eat." We did. And then more cigars. The police were a splendid lot of men. They loaded us down with gifts and asked perfunctory questions for their records. One of them, H. Letema, of ——, took us to his home, where his comely wife and daughter loaded the table with good things; while he brought out more cigars. He showed us to a bed-room before we understood where he was taking us. We refused, for reasons of a purely personal nature. "Nix," we said, and when he would not accept our refusal we tried it in Niederlaender. "No, no." Still he persisted, and his good wife too. So we led him firmly aside and showed him the indescribably verminous condition we were in. That convinced him. They appreciated that little touch and gave us a deep pile of blankets, flung down on three feet of sweet-smelling straw in an outhouse, where we slept as we had not slept for many months.

In the morning Letema escorted us down to Aaschen, which was the nearest large town. A Belgian and a Holland lady, hearing of the escaped English prisoners, met us within twenty minutes of our arrival, took us in hand and loaded us down with kindnesses. We ate only five full sized meals that day, not counting the extras we absorbed between them. And there were more cigars. The raw oats and potatoes seemed a long way off.

Our day at Aaschen was a repetition of the previous one at Alboom and Borger, but on a grander scale. The ladies took us down to Rotterdam and did not leave us until they had turned us over to the British consul there, whose name I have forgotten but who, with the vice consul, Mr. Mueller, was very kind indeed; in fact, all whom we met, irrespective of their nationality, age or sex placed us under eternal obligations to them. In particular Mr. Neilson, the rector of the English church and in charge of the Sailors' Institute there, seemed to live only for us.

Mr. Henken at the American consulate was equally kind. They lodged us at the Seaman's Rest, took our painted rags away and clothed us in blue "civvie" suits which seemed to us the height of sinful luxury. We were shaved, clean and could eat everything in sight, at any time of the day or night. And did so. The meals we used to shift! We were very glad to get rid of our waterproof suits—for that is what they had become, from the paint.

Mr. Neilson took us sight seeing every day. Once we went out to Mr. Carnegie's Peace Palace which had been closed on account of the war but which we were permitted to inspect. I had not thought such buildings were done, except in dreams. It made our own bitter past seem unreal. The Italian room, in particular, seemed like a delicate canvas in marble and done in a fashion the memory of which gripped me for days and still haunts me. We spent days thus; supremely happy.

We were joined here by Jerry Burke of the 8th Battalion of Winnipeg. He was a nephew of Sir Sam Hughes, the then Canadian Minister of Militia and had just made his escape from some other camp.

We were to have left on the fifth with a fleet of boats which sailed then. By the time we had got on board, however, the sailors from the first boat were returning. They had been torpedoed. And that stopped us.

We got away on the S.S. Grenadier on the sixteenth, and after hugging the length of the English Coast, arrived safely at Newcastle-upon-Tyne on the eighteenth.

Here our troubles began!



CHAPTER XX

"IT'S A WAY THEY HAVE IN THE ARMY"

Red Tape in the Army—A Disgruntled Soldier—"Old Soldier, Old Fox"—A Touch for Twenty Quid—Augen Rechts at Seaford—Canada!

My family in Canada have since remarked that although my letters had invariably been cheerful throughout my imprisonment, from the time I set foot on English soil they reflected the deepest despondency. That could be explained in part by the fact that uncheerful letters could not pass the German but could pass the British censor. But more particularly it was due to the fact that I became entangled in the interminable red tape of the army system, and, instead of meeting with the warm sympathy that an exile longs for, met, on the part of the army, with cold suspicion; however kind some individuals were to me.

Simmons and I were not permitted to leave the boat until the military came for us. So far so good. We were taken to the headquarters of the General Officer Commanding that district. He briefly examined us and good-naturedly gave us some money out of his own pocket and tickets to London, where we were ordered to report at the War Office.

Arriving in "The Smoke," as the army has named that city, we proceeded the next morning to 14 Downing Street and sent our names in to the official we had been directed to by the general. He was in mufti, whoever he was, and received us kindly enough. We were closely questioned about our experiences, particularly in relation to our guards, food, treatment, and so on. He also asked us as to the amount of sickness among the prisoners, the condition of the country, and so on.

Dismissed, we made a dash down past Big Ben and the Parliament Buildings for the Canadian Pay and Record Office, where at Millbank it overlooked the Thames. A sergeant took our names and after a time took us, too, in to the paymaster. Simmons drew his money without difficulty but I found that I was fifteen months dead and was told that I could get no money until my identity was reestablished. I protested; so much so in fact that I fully expected to land in the "clink." No use. I was sent out on the street talking to myself.

We next called on Lady Rivers-Bulkeley and Lady Drummond to thank them for the very great kindness of themselves and the Canadian Red Cross in sending us our parcels regularly, and without which we would assuredly have been too weak to have made our escape. Lady Farquhar, the wife of our late commanding officer, was out of town, so we did not see her, much as we desired to thank her for similar kindnesses.

Simmons was single. He was sent to Canada at once and was promptly discharged. I had a wife and family awaiting me there and I wanted badly to go to them by the next boat. My wife had been receiving letters from me during my fifteen months' imprisonment; she had regularly received her separation allowance; the Canadian Red Cross and many kind friends in London had been sending me prisoner-of-war parcels for a year; the authorities admitted my identity and my former comrades recognised me; I had fifteen months' pay at $1.20 a day, besides a subsistence allowance of sixty-five cents a day, coming to me; but could not draw a cent of it. I was dead. And continued so for three months. There is no explanation. "It's a way they have in the Army"; or so the army says.





In the end it was only through the active intervention of Sir George Perley, the Canadian High Commissioner in London that my case was righted. He, I believe, cabled the Ottawa authorities, who in turn got in touch with my wife, who produced the necessary documentary evidence to prove that I had been alive and a prisoner all this time.

I went to the depot at Seaford. I borrowed from my old friends. I hung round the pay office. The paymaster said I was not on the strength of the regiment. I was old soldier enough to profit by that calamity at least. The bitter injustice of such miscarriage of justice blinded me, as I think it eventually does most soldiers, to the accepted code of civil life. I refused to attend roll call or do drills, fatigues, or any other part of my regimental duties other than certain interesting and thrice-daily rites not unconnected with the kitchen.

It is the commonness, the constant repetition of such stupidity and such lack of action that so much injures the reputation for intelligence of the army in the minds of those who have served in it; so that those who know it best, like it least—and put up with it only because it is the poor instrument of a good cause.

The paymaster fell sick. A young subaltern was acting for him. My sergeant pal tipped me off. As I have said, I was an old soldier with all that that implies. He marched me up to the officer, already more or less at sea about his new duties. I asked for money. He was aware of my history but not of the tangle I was in:

"How much?"

I wondered how much the traffic would bear.

"Twenty quid, sir," I ventured. He went up in the air.

"Impossible! I'll give you ten."

I O. K'd that while the words were yet warm on his lips. Fifty dollars is a great deal of money to a soldier. He gave it to me with a pass for Scotland—where I had relatives—to which I had long been entitled but which had been useless to me as long as I had no money.

I quickly gathered my cronies together and we packed into the canteen to celebrate the occasion fittingly, in the only fashion a good soldier knows, in army beer so thick and strong that the hops floated on the tops of the mess-tins. While searching for the bottom of one of these I heard the orderly shouting: "Corporal Edwards! Corporal Edwards!" The other men gathered round me in the corner, drinking, while I scrunched down so that the orderly passed on and out still shouting my name.

I fled to the tent and was hastily getting my things together when a corporal came hot-foot saying that the officer wanted me at once. I went in, gave him my very best regimental salute and stood at attention.

"I find that you are not on the strength, corporal, and are not entitled to any money, so I'll trouble you to return that money I gave you."

"I'm sorry, sir," I said sadly, "but it's gone."

"Gone? How?"

"Debts, sir," I said firmly. "My mates have been keeping me going."

"Well, you must get it back from them at once and return it to me. It's most irregular. Push on now and see that you're back here in an hour's time with that money before those fellows spend it all in the canteen."

"Very good, sir." I gave him a smashing good Augen Rechts to cheer him up against the time he should discover that I was well on my way to Scotland.

And I remained there until I received notice that my regimental bones had been officially exhumed; after which I had no difficulty in getting my back pay and three months' furlough for Canada and home!

AUTHOR'S NOTE.—An amusing and at the same time gratifying sequel to this story developed immediately upon the heels of its publication in a considerably smaller form in the Saturday Evening Post. Sergeant Edwards, who had not previously been consulted by the authorities, was at once offered his choice between doing "duty" in Canada or taking a discharge from the army, instead of going overseas again. He chose the discharge.

An interesting fact in connection with Brumley, the man who was the first to be recaptured on the second attempt to escape, is that according to a post card received from him by his wife, he has since made two other unsuccessful attempts at escape. Scarfe, who was exchanged to Switzerland, reports that he has married a Swiss girl there. Stamper, another Patricia who was captured at the same time as Edwards, has recently been exchanged and is now in England. Scott, who was captured with the men of an English regiment, was exchanged to Switzerland and recently returned to Toronto and has been in hospital, in a serious condition, ever since. The fate of the others is unknown.



THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE

In order to remove any vestige of doubt in the reader's mind as to the authenticity of Corporal Edwards' tale, it has been deemed advisable to present reproductions of certain newspaper articles and correspondence which bear directly on some of the points touched upon in the story.

It will be noticed that quite aside from the major fact of the escape itself having been brought out here, there is the equally important one of the bringing out of a great number of lesser points which tally to a hair with such references to them as are made in the story, such for instance as the references to the delay in England, the references in their post cards of those fellow-prisoners who remain in Germany and other facts of a similar nature.

The following are exact reproductions in every case, except for the explanatory note which prefaces each item.

Extract from Toronto Daily Star, May 30, 1915.

WAS BACK ONLY THREE WEEKS

CORP. EDWARDS, REPORTED MISSING, WAS WOUNDED SHORT TIME AGO.

Lance-Corp. Edward Edwards of the Princess Pats who is reported missing to-day, has only been back at the trenches for three weeks, after having been wounded and in England for a month with a bullet in his foot. He lived at 70 Standish Avenue, Rosedale, where his wife and three young sons now live. He is 38 years of age and has been in Canada ten years. Previous service in Africa and India with the Gordon Highlanders is to his credit.

Letter from Corporal Edwards to His Wife in Toronto.

Mon Adress exacte: GIESSEN (Allemagne) Compagnie No. 6 Baraque No. A. Nom et Prenom: E. Edwards. Oct. 2nd, 1915.

MY DEAREST EM: A few more lines, hoping they find all in the best of health and everything going on all right. I received your parcels all right. They were a treat and came in good condition. How are the boys getting along? Awfully sorry about Hector but hope he is all right again, poor chap's been having a hard time of it. How are Gordon and Frank. Tell them I was asking for them. I guess the Beastie has grown quite a big chap. Thanks for J. Birnies' address. I will drop him a card some time but you see I can only send two letters a month. Jack wanted me to write to the lodge but I can't see how I can manage it. Em, lass, don't send me any clothing as I will manage all right. Col. Farquhar's wife is going to send me out some and Major Gault is sending tobacco and cigarettes so I will be all right. I had a parcel from Bob with a shirt and some eatables; also one from Jean at Blacktop and one from home. We are always on the lookout for them. Have you had any word from Mina? I've had letters from them all. We are having rather cool weather. I sent a post card to G. Nelson; I don't know if he ever got it but you can ask him when he comes up. Em, what are you doing about the house? Are you getting it fixed up or are you coming over home? It would be rather late this year to come over but please yourself; only let me know what you are doing. Is George still in Canada? Jean was expecting him to drop in any time. He has been very good to me ever since I landed first in England. I will never be able to pay her back. I can't give you any news as I don't know it myself. Don't wait on a letter from me before you write but write often and tell me all about yourself and the boys. Tell Jack to write and I will drop him a card when I can. Keep your heart up and look after yourself. Tell Miss Holmes I was asking for her; also Mrs. Arlow. Tell her I got her letter; also tell all my friends I was asking for them. If Mr. Skerrow comes up again tell him I am doing fine but would sooner be working up in N. Toronto—but am making the best of it. I think I will stop Em; I have really nothing to tell you, only write soon and often. Give the boys a tight one for me. Best love to you all. Good bye.

Your Affect. Ed.

149 Corpl. E. Edwards, Barrack A., Company 6, Prisoner of War. Giessen, Germany.

P.S. Just received your letter Sept. 3rd. Tell Mrs. Bownie not to bother sending anything. I have got all I want. Can't send a long letter. This is all we are allowed. Ed.

Extract from Montreal Gazette, Sept. 21, 1916.

EDWARD EDWARDS ESCAPES FROM FOE

TORONTO SOLDIER WITH TWO OTHERS MAKE GET-AWAY. WANDER FOR THREE WEEKS.

BRASS BAND ESCORTS THEM TO MAYOR OF TOWN IN HOLLAND.

London, Sept. 21.—Registered as dead by the Canadian Pay and Record office, which was about to authorise distribution of their effects, Lance-Corp. Edward Edwards of the Princess Patricias, 70 Standish Avenue; Pte. James Jerry Burke (1216) Eighth Battalion, Winnipeg and Pte. M.C. Simmons (23445) of Seventh Battalion, Port Arthur, have arrived in London after having escaped from a German prison camp. They experienced some strenuous adventures. For three weeks they were at large; slowly and cautiously wending their way to the Holland frontier, they covered the distance of 150 miles. In Holland the fugitives to their surprise, found a warm welcome. In fact, a local band headed them in procession to the Mayor, who in turn communicated with the British Consul, with the result that they were shipped to England.

Extract from Toronto Daily Star, Sept. 22, 1916.

MRS. EDWARDS IS REJOICING

CAN HARDLY BELIEVE THAT HUSBAND ESCAPED FROM GERMAN PRISON.

HEARD SO MANY DIFFERENT TALES.

COMRADES WHO HAVE RETURNED ASSURED HER HE WOULD GET AWAY.

"I cannot believe it until I hear from him. But I do hope it is true. I am glad I never kept him back, and never told him not to go. He is a soldier to the backbone."

Mrs. Edward Edwards, 70 Standish Avenue, Rosedale, was discussing the report that her husband, Lance-Corp. Edward Edwards of the Princess Patricias, had escaped from a prison camp in Germany and after travelling over 150 miles of country arrived with two others on Dutch territory whence they were shipped to England after being feted by some of the people in Holland.

"I have heard so many different stories. At first I was told he was killed, but later he sent me a letter from Germany telling me he was in a prison camp there. Only last Saturday I had a letter from him in which he asked me to send him on a box of soap to wash his clothes. He said in that letter that he had enough tobacco, cocoa and coffee to last him for some time but he needed soap."

Lance-Corporal Edwards, who was connected with the Royal Grenadiers, in Toronto, was formerly a member of the Gordon Highlanders, and fought with the 2nd Battalion of that regiment throughout the South African War. Stationed in India at the outbreak of that war the regiment was sent to South Africa and was shut up in Ladysmith. He is the possessor of three medals and five clasps. He took part in the great Delhi Durbar.

"Over a year ago my husband was shot in the foot," said Mrs. Edwards. "He returned to the trenches and was just three weeks back when he was posted as missing. That was a year ago last May. For a long time I had no word of what had happened to him until I had a letter from him."

VISITS FROM COMRADES.

"Many of the returned Princess Patricias come to see me. Only last Sunday one of them said to me when talking of my husband: 'He will be escaping from the Germans some of these days.' And it is just like him to do that. But he and the two with him must have suffered terribly in the time they were hiding through 150 miles of the enemy's country. I wish I had him home now."

"I heard from him regularly every six weeks by letter. Occasionally he would send me a postcard between the letters. He never discussed the war, except in the phrase that it could not last for ever. He always wrote bright and cheerful letters."

At No. 68 Standish Avenue lives the widow of Private Percy Edwards, brother of Lance-Corporal Edwards. Private Edwards was a reservist of the Gordon Highlanders and at the outbreak of the war was called home to join his regiment. He was killed in the first action in which the Gordons were engaged. His widow and three young sons live next door to Mrs. Edwards, who also has three young sons. Both of the Edwards brothers and their wives are natives of Aberdeenshire, Scotland.

Postal Card to Mrs. E. Edwards, 70 Standish Ave., N. Rosedale, Toronto, Ont., Canada.

12th Sept. 1916. Assen, Holland. Dear Em: I guess you will get my letter along with this card explaining things. You will know that I have escaped from Germany and am on my way to England but will write you every chance I get. Give my love to the boys and I hope all is well at home. I am feeling pretty good. This is where I am just now. Yours ever, Ed.

Postal to Mrs. E. Edwards, 70 Standish Ave., N. Rosedale, Toronto, Canada.

Sept. 8th, Newcastle-on-Tyne, England.

Dear Em: Hope you have received all my letters that I have written you from Holland. They will tell you all about my escape. I leave here for London to-night. Will write you from there. Love to the boys. Write me Bulter address. Ed.

Postal Card to Mrs. E. Edwards, 70 Standish Ave., N. Rosedale, Toronto, Canada.

Sept. 22nd, 1916. Folkestone, England. Dear Em: Hope you got the cable all right, also some of the letters and cards I sent you. What do you think of my escape? Not so bad, eh? Write me at Bulter. How are the boys? Give them my love. Am back at Shornecliffe with the regiment. Will be going on leave. Trying to get over to see you. Will write you to-morrow. Write as soon as you can. Ed.



Post Card to Cpl. E. Edwards, 7 St. Mary's Place, Cuttor, Aberdeenshire, Scotland, from Cpl. E. Hardy, a fellow prisoner.

Mon Adress Exacte: Nom et Prenom: Cpl. E. Hardy No. matricule: 1906 No. de la Compagnie: 8 Lettre de la baraque: "E" GIESSEN (Allemagne)

Giessen, le 25-9-1916.

Dear Ted: I received your P.C. quite safe. I did a little dance on my own. Charlie Walker is away somewhere. How are Dennie and Nobler going on. You may be sure I was pleased to hear of you getting in port safe. Sorry to hear you got wrecked on your first trip but you have no worry now. Good Luck. Ted.

Post Card to Cpl. E. Edwards, Number One Company P. P. C. L. I., St. Martins Plains, Shornecliffe, England. Via Holland, from Hookie Walker, a fellow prisoner.

Mon addresse exacte: Nom et prenom: C. Walker, No. matricule: No. de la compagnie: 6, Baraque: B. No. du detachement: 1 Giessen (Allemagne) Oct. 1st, 1916.

Dear Old Ted: I received your P.C. God Bless you and good Luck be with you always. I have been on the water and got wrecked also but I have not given up by any means. I am in the best of health. Remember me to all and God be with you. Hookie.

Undated Post Card to Mr. E. Edwards Jun, 7 St. Mary's Place, Cutter, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Via Holland, from Cpl. Hardy.

Mon Adresse exacte: Nom et prenom: Cpl. E. Hardy No. matricule: 1906 No. de la compagnie: 8, Baraque "E" No. du detachement:

Giessen (Allemagne)

Dear Ted: I am very glad everything went on A1. I am sorry I was not with you. I am not wanting anything, thanks. I hope you have a good time when you go to Canada. I have not seen anything of Hookie for about 12 months, nor Stamper. I have still got a few things safe for you when I come home. I will close with best respects, Ted.

Undated Card to Mrs. Edwards, Rotterdam, Holland.

Dear Em. Hope you are getting my letters all right and that all is well at home. I am still feeling and getting treated pretty good and will be in England in two or three days. Since it all goes well write me c/o of Bulter address and I will be sure to get them. How are the boys? Is the wee chap still holding my place? Tell Gordon when I get to England I will help him get a bicycle so that he can be the same as Hector. This is where I am just now but will be on my way in a few hours. I have sent you Tinnie's photo. How will she do? It might be all we can get. Ed.

Postal to Mrs. Edwards, 70 Standish Ave., N. Rosedale, Toronto, Canada.

26-10-16. From Folkestone.

Dear Em: Arrived back in Folkestone all right. Called on Mrs. Cawthra. Had a long talk with her. Can't get any word of when I am to get over to Canada but will let you know as soon as possible. Might be some time yet. Got the letter with Hector's and will bring the things with me when I come home. How are the boys getting along? Wish I was there. Good-bye. Ed.

Extract from Toronto Daily Star, December, 1916.

HOME ON LEAVE AFTER ESCAPE FROM THE HUNS

SGT. EDWARD EDWARDS TELLS GRAPHIC STORY OF 100 MILE FLIGHT.

WIFE HAD TO PROVE HUSBAND WAS ALIVE.

SENT HIS PHOTO AND LETTERS BEFORE WAR OFFICE WOULD BELIEVE IT.

No bands played and no Reception Committee extended the welcome hand to Sergt. Edward Edwards when he stepped off the train at the Union Station and walked to the home of his wife and family one day last week, after two years and seven months' absence at the front with a storehouse of thrilling experiences that rival even the exploits of the Three Musketeers. That he was one of only 49 left of the crack Princess Patricias who were mown down at the Ypres Salient on May 8, 1915, was wounded twice, missing and officially declared dead and escaped twice from German prison camps in company with two companions are only incidents in a long chapter of events which surpass in thrilling interest Dumas' most daring fiction. Tom Brumley, another member of a Toronto regiment, and Mervin Simmons, a Canadian from Trail, B.C., were the two friends of the modern D'Artagan, but unfortunately Brumley was recaptured by the Huns during the first escape and Sergt. Edwards has not heard from him since.

Sergt. Edwards is now on ten weeks' furlough and is due to report in England on May 10, when he expects to go into the fighting again. "We went to the Ypres salient in May. I was one of ten in my company to get through," said he.

TRIBUTE TO COL. BULLER

Here Sergt. Edwards paid a tribute to his late commanding officer, Col. Buller, who was killed on the 2nd of June of this year. "It was the Germans, too, who told us of our old Colonel's death. They knew everything, it seemed, about our commanders and could tell the regiment and division that we belonged to."

We were taken to Roulers, Belgium. After a brief stay there we were taken to Giessen. There were 1,200 prisoners, mostly Russian and French. The food we got was awful.

REFUSED TO WORK

"After a stay here of about six months I was sent with my two friends, Brumley and Simmons, to a punishment camp for refusing to work in a steel factory to make munitions. Three hundred British and Canadians also refused in spite of threats, and ill-treatment, and all were sent on to Celle Laager, the main punishment camp. We were there two weeks and then we were split into small parties and I was slated with my two friends for a place called Oldenburg. Here they wanted us to go into a moor and drain the place to grow potatoes. It was from this place that we made our first serious attempt to escape.

We made a dash for the shelter of the moor. In a few minutes we heard the baying of a vicious pack of dogs they had sent in pursuit, but we managed to elude them and struck out for the Dutch border more than 100 miles distant. We came to the River Ems four miles from the border of Holland. We could not find a boat or raft and were recaptured."

MADE FINAL ESCAPE

After undergoing this sentence, Sergt. Edwards and Simmons were taken to another punishment camp at Salsengen and it was from here that they made their successful escape on August 21.

The British Consul at Rotterdam arranged the wanderers' passage to England, where they arrived on the 18th of September. When he reported in London, Sergt. Edwards had to prove he was alive, because the records of the War Office had him marked up as dead. A lot of red tape had to be untangled before the gallant soldier could be officially brought back from the dead, but at that time he was still writing to his wife, so that, when she saw her husband's name in the casualty list, she at once contradicted the officials by sending her husband's letters and his pictures.

Postal card to No. 39 Cpl. E. Edwards, P. P. C. L. I. Depot, South Camp, Seaford, Sussex, England, from Charles Scarfe, who was also captured on May 8th.

Manor Farm, Interlaken, Switzerland, Jan. 3rd, 1917.

Dear Old Pal Teddy:

Just a card hoping to find you well as it leaves me A-1. Hope you had a good Christmas. Had a fairly good one myself but hope we are in Canada next one. Have had enough of being a prisoner of war. Remember me to all the boys and write soon. From your old pal, Charlie.

Postal card to 39 Cpl. E. Edwards, P. P. C. L. I. Depot, South Camp, Seaford, Sussex, England, from his comrade in the escape.

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