We kept track of the number of potatoes we ate that morning. It was twenty-five! What we couldn't eat we put in our pockets, and held in our hands—for the warmth. That day, September 3d, was the brightest and warmest day we had.

Toward evening we crept out to the edge of the wood to see what sort of country we were in—and found there was a village quite near us. But as we had heard not a sound all day, and as there was not a flutter around it now,—not a soul stirring or a cow-bell tinkling,—we thought it must be a deserted hamlet. The old and now almost indistinct paths through the wood where we sat seemed to tell of a departed people.

We sat in one of these old paths, watching the shafts of sunlight which filtered through the woods as we waited for the dark. Then Ted began to fix the strips of cloth around his feet, and I lay down upon my back, across the path, looking up at the sky, which was shot over with mackerel-back clouds, giving promise of settled weather.

Suddenly, around a bend in the path, came a man and a dog. The man carried a gun across his shoulder, and evidently had been shooting birds. I swung myself off the path and motioned to him to go by—for he had stopped in surprise. Ted did the same. Our gestures were polite—but I think had something suggestive in them too—almost commanding.

He passed by, merely bidding us "good-evening," and remarking in German that Ted's feet were sore!

He walked on, as a peaceable old fellow who had no desire to get into trouble, and although he must have seen the yellow stripe down the seams of our trousers, and the prison numbers on our tunics, he kept on going.

We watched him through the trees, as far as we could see him, but only once did he turn and look back—and then only for a minute. He was not going toward the village, but we decided to keep away from it, anyway, and at nightfall we made a wide detour to avoid it. The night clouded up, too, and we pushed along with thankful hearts that the old man with the dog knew when to keep quiet.

A rare piece of good luck came to us that night. We came to a settlement, evidently a new one, for the houses were of modern design, and the farm-buildings, too, were fresh and newly built. There was evidently a creamery somewhere near, and beside the road we found a can full of milk set out, to be gathered up in the morning. The cream had risen to the top of it, and with our toffee tin we helped ourselves. Later on, we found others, and helped ourselves again. It was a very satisfactory arrangement for us to have the refreshment booths scattered like this along the way. Then we ate some of the burnt potatoes and an apple or two, had a few drinks of cream from another can, and the night passed pleasantly. From the apple-trees beside the road we replenished our pockets, and felt this had been a good night.

It was a good thing for us that the night had started so well, for along toward morning, probably two hours before daylight, we crossed a peat-bog. There was a road at first which helped us, but it ran into a pile of cut peat, drying for the winter. There were also other roads leading to peat-piles, but these were very misleading, and as the night was of inky blackness, with scarcely any breeze, it became harder and harder to keep our direction. Consulting the compass so often was depleting our match supply, and I tried to depend on the faint breath of a breeze which sometimes seemed to die away altogether. This bog, like all the others, had tufts of grass and knolls of varying size coming in the most unexpected places. Over these we stumbled, and fell, many times, and as we felt fairly safe from being heard, it was some relief to put into language what we thought of the country and all its people, past, present, and future. I believe we were especially explicit about the future!

It was nearly morning when we got off the bog, and as the rain was falling we took refuge in a tumble-down hut which had probably been a cowherd's. We soon saw that it was a poor shelter, and when a woman came along and looked straight at us, we began to get gooseflesh! She actually smiled at us, and we tried to smile back reassuringly, but I am afraid there was a lack of mirth in our smiles which detracted from their charm.

She walked away—stopped—looked back at us—and smiled again, and went on, nodding her head as if she knew something. We were rather afraid she did, and hastily decided to push on. We were afraid of the lady's patriotism, and determined to be moving. There was a thick-looking wood just ahead, and to it we went with all speed, taking with us two large gunnysacks which we found in the hut. They were stamped "Utrecht" and had the name of a dealer there.

All that day we were afraid of the lady who smiled and nodded her head, but perhaps we wronged her in our thoughts, for the day passed without any disturbance. Probably she, too, like the old man with the dog, knew that silence does not often get one into trouble.

That day we shaved, but, there being no stream near, we had to empty the rain-drops off the leaves into the top of the box which held Ted's shaving-stick. It took time, of course, but what was time to us? We had more time than anything else.

Although we tried to reassure ourselves with the thought that there were probably no soldiers near, and that the civilians were not likely to do any searching, still we were too apprehensive to sleep, and started away at nightfall, with eyes that burned and ached from our long vigil.

The night was cloudy at first, with sprinkling rain, but cleared up about midnight into a clear, cold autumn night. The cold kept me from getting sleepy, but when I got warm from walking my sleepiness grew overpowering. Ted was more wakeful than I, and took the lead, while I stumbled along behind, aching in every joint with sleepiness. The night was clear and starry, and Ted steered our course by the stars.

No one who has gone through it needs to be told about the misery of sleepiness. I fought against it—I pulled open my eyes—I set my will with all the force I could command, but in spite of all I could do, my eyes would close and I would fall over, and in the fall would awaken and go on, only to fall again. At last we stopped and lay down, sorry to lose so much of the darkness, but the cold soon awakened us, and, chilled and shivering, with numb fingers, we struggled to our feet and went on. But when, with the walking, we were warmed again, with the warmth came the sleepiness.

At dawn we crept into a thick bush, but the ground was damp and cold, and our sleepiness had left us. We ate some of our cold roast potatoes, and tried to sleep, for we dreaded to spend another night like the last one. In the afternoon the sun came out and warmed the air, so we had a fairly good sleep and started away at nightfall.

The night was clear and starlight, so the peat-bog which we encountered did not bother us so much, for we could see the holes and ridges. After the bog, we came into a settlement, but the people were in villages and had their cows stabled, so there was no chance for thirsty and hungry travellers. To the north we could see the huge searchlights above Oldenburg, and we thought of the cells—and shuddered! But our hunger was making us cold again, and we determined to go into the next village we came to, to find some apples.

The first one we came to was a large one, and compactly built. The night was lit by the stars, and therefore not quite so good for our purpose, but we had to have something. We cautiously entered a garden gate which some one had obligingly left open, but when we got in, we found that the trees were high, and apparently well looked-after, for not an apple could be found! We were only a few yards from the house, behind whose darkened windows the family slept, not knowing that the alien enemy were so near.

We slipped out of the open gate—we could see now why it had been left open—and went into the next garden—with the same result. Every apple had been gathered. We started down the street again, walking cautiously on the grass, and slipping along as quickly as possible. We carried the sacks, which we had split open, over our shoulders, and as they were of a neutral shade, they were not so easily seen as our dark-blue suits would have been.

Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening, ahead of us, on the other side of the street, and two soldiers came out! We lay flat on the street where we were, and "froze." The sacks which were wrapped about us helped to conceal us, or at least made us look less like men. The soldiers passed along the middle of the street, chatting and laughing; we could hear their spurs clanking! Coming out of the light had probably dulled their sight, and they did not see us. We lay there until their footsteps had died away. Then we got up, and got out!

We were not hungry any more—at least we were so much more frightened than hungry that we only knew we were frightened, and we pushed our way on as fast as we could. That night was the first on which we had seen the moon. The shelter we found was another group of Christmas trees, and as we still had a couple of roast potatoes we ate them, and got a little sleep.

The next night the villages kept getting in our way. When we tried to avoid one, we got into another, and in one we saw a light twinkling in an upstairs window, where some woman, probably, sat late at her work or watched by the bedside of a sick child. As usual, there were no street lamps, and I think the light inside was a coal-oil lamp! But not a dog barked, and we came safely out on a road which led in a westerly direction.

In the morning, when the east began to redden, we got shelter in a thin wood, and, having found some potatoes outside of one of the villages, we determined to run the risk of having a fire to roast them. We didn't roast many, though, for the dawn came on too swiftly, and we had to extinguish our fire, for there was a farmhouse not a hundred yards away, and the people were beginning to stir.

That day there were people working all around us, and one old chap, with a red shirt on, was so ambitious about getting his turnips lifted that I don't believe he even knocked off for noon. We thought he would never quit at night either. We called him the "work-hog!"

In the afternoon, as we lay in the woods, an old man, a shepherd, came with a flock of white sheep which followed close behind him. The old man wore a velvet cloak, knee breeches, and buckles on his shoes, and he had a sheep dog with him—a small-sized tricolored, rough-haired collie. It was exactly like a picture! We were not in any mood to enjoy the beauty of it, for some of the sheep wandered through the wood, almost stepping on us, and when the shepherd came after them, he must have seen us. But the old man belonged to the peaceful past, and knew nothing of wars and prisoners, so went out of the wood as quietly as he came. He was as innocent-looking as the sunshine, or the white clouds in the blue sky!

Still, we were two suspicious men who trusted no one, and we thought it best to move. I took the potatoes in my sack, and Ted, to be ready for emergencies, provided a stout, knotted club for himself, and we stole out of the wood, being careful to keep it between us and the "work-hog," who never lifted his eyes—but still we took no chances, even on him!

There was a better wood a short distance away, and to it we came. We saw nobody, and, coming into a dark cover, lit a fire, for we thought the smoke would not rise to the tops of the trees. On it we roasted our remaining potatoes, and we got a drink in a narrow, trickling stream.

We started again, at dark, and before long came to a railway, which, according to our map, was the line which runs parallel to the river Ems. We knew we were coming near the Ems, and at the thought of it, drew a long breath. It seemed a long time since we had stood on its bank before and heard the sounds from across the Holland border. We kept going all night, avoiding the roads, and about three o'clock reached the river. There it was!—a much smaller river than when we had last seen it, but plenty large enough yet to fill us with apprehension. We found a good hiding-place before daylight, and then went back to a potato-field we had passed, and put about a pailful in our sacks before settling down for the day in the wood.

Just before dawn we made our fire and roasted the potatoes. They tasted fine, and as the day was warm and bright, we began to feel more cheerful. That day we heard the deep-booming whistles of steamboats, and the shriller notes of the canal-boats. Although we knew the river boats were passing up and down just below us, we restrained our curiosity and stayed closely hidden.

Just before it got dark we crept to the edge of the high ground overlooking the river. The other side of the river was flat, and seemed to be settled. I knew from a map I had seen that there was a canal a short distance beyond the river, and that it, too, would have to be crossed.

Looking down to the water's edge, we saw a fence enclosing some pasture land, and were glad to see another gate, for we wanted a raft for our clothes, and we thought this would do. It was a heavy brute of a gate. We could hardly launch it. Perhaps we were getting weaker—that may have been the reason it seemed so heavy. Anyway, when we got it to the water's edge, we had to rest before undertaking to swim the river. The current was not so strong as we had feared, and we reached the other side in safety.

We did not pull up the gate, but let it go drifting down the stream. Perhaps this also is accounted for by the fact that we were getting weaker: also, we considered that we were harder pressed for time than the German farmer—he could make another gate.

After we had dressed and had walked for about an hour, we came to the canal. Unfortunately for our purpose, the night was clear and the stars were out in thousands, and, to make matters worse, the young moon, just a crescent, but still capable of giving some light, came out. We had been longer than we expected on our journey, and now, at the most critical time of it, when there was the greatest need of caution, we had moonlight nights to face! Still, every night was getting worse than the last, so we must go forward with all speed.

The canal was about sixty feet wide, and I felt certain it would be guarded, for it was so near the border. We went to the edge, and looked across—and then up and down—to see if we could find any trace of a guard; everything was quiet.

We knew it was a time for great haste. We went back quickly and undressed. I grabbed my bundle and let myself cautiously into the water, taking care not to make the slightest splash. When I reached the other side, I threw my clothes on the sand and came back far Ted—he was waiting for me. I took his clothes, and together we swam across!

We got quietly out of the water. I picked up my own bundle, and we started for the trees on the other side of the road. There was an excavation there where sand had been taken out. Seeing it, we slipped into it noiselessly. We were not a moment too soon, for when we stood still and listened, we heard the regular footsteps of a man, and in twenty seconds the patrol marched by! Then we dressed and got out of our fortunate hiding-place, and went on.

We still had a couple of hours before daylight, but the danger was growing greater every minute, for we knew we were approaching the border. At that thought our hearts beat wild with hope. The border would be guarded—there was nothing surer—any minute we might be challenged. We had talked it over, and were determined to make a dash for it if that happened. The patrol would shoot, but there was a chance he might not shoot straight; he would hardly get us both!

Soon we came to a marsh, with an edge of peat, and as we advanced we saw the peat was disappearing, and it did not look good ahead. The moonlight showed us a grassy mat, level as the top of a lake, and without a shrub or tree to indicate a solid bottom. It was evidently a quaking bog, a hidden lake, and only the fear behind us drove us on. It swayed beneath our feet, falling as we stepped on it fully a foot, and rising again behind us. There would be little danger of guards here, for the place would be considered impassable—and maybe it was—we should see!

Our feet were light—fear gave them wings—and we raced over the bending, swaying, springing surface! The moon was not bright enough for us to pick our steps—there was no picking, anyway—it was a matter of speed! At every step the grass mat went below the surface of the water, and we could feel it rising over our boot-tops—cold and horrible. If we had hesitated a second, I know we should have gone through; but we had every reason for haste. Behind us was the enemy—cruel, merciless, hateful—with their stolid faces and their black cells. Under us—was death. Before us—was freedom—home—and the ones we love!

At the other side there was more peat, some of it cut and piled. We were puffing hard from our exertions, but were afraid to rest a second. The border must be near!

In a few minutes after leaving the bog we came to a small canal, which surprised me—there had been no other canal indicated on any map I had seen. It puzzled me for a minute; then a great joy swept over me! The maps I had seen were maps of Germany. This canal must be in Holland!

But I did not say this to Ted, for I wasn't sure. We undressed again—the third time that night—and swam the canal, and, dressing again, went on. Soon we found a finely settled country, with roads which improved as we went on, all the time. There were no trees, but the darkness still held, and we kept going. Toward morning we took refuge in a thicket, and spent the day.

That day was September 9th, and although we thought we were in Holland, we were not sure enough to come out and show ourselves. So we lay low, and ate the green apples that we had found on a tree between the river and the canal the night before. We slept a little, though too excited to sleep much.

Beside the thicket where we were hidden, a boy worked in a field with a fine team of horses, ploughing stubble. We tried to listen to what he said to his team, to see if there was any change from the German "Burrrrrrsh," but he was a silent youth, and so far as we could make out, said never a word all day. So we could not prove it by him!

But the good horses gave us hope—horses were scarce in Germany!

At dusk we started out again, and kept going straight west, for one fear still tormented us. Our maps showed us that one part of Germany projects into Holland, and for this reason we kept straight west, to avoid all danger of running into it; for the uncomfortable thought would come that to escape from Germany and then walk into it again would make us feel foolish—not to mention other emotions.

It seemed to be a fine country that we were going through, and the walking was easy, although we were not on a road. I had been telling Ted that the first railway we came to would be a single-tracked one, with dirt ballast, and then we should be sure we were in Holland. I had seen this railroad on the map, and knew it was a few miles from the border. To me, this would be sufficient proof that we were safely out of Germany.

Soon we saw a fringe of houses ahead, and we thought we were coming near a canal, for we were in the country of canals now, and the houses are built on their banks. There were lights in a few of the houses, for it was only about eleven o'clock, and some of the people were still up. The houses looked to be rather good ones, and they were built in a row. It was the backs of them we were approaching, which we did with extreme caution, for we had no desire to have some snarling dog discover us and give the alarm.

So intent were we, watching the houses for any sign of life, that we did not see what was just before us until we had walked up to it. Then we saw—

It was a railroad, single-tracked, with dirt ballast!

Without a word, Ted and I shook hands! We were in Holland!



CHAPTER XXIII

OUT

Immediately we set out to find a road. There would be no more skulking through fields for us. We were free again, entitled to all the privileges of road and bridge.

We soon found a good wagon-road leading to a bridge over the canal. Across the bridge we boldly went, caring nothing for the houses at our right and left, whose windows were lighted and whose dogs may have been awake for all we cared. It seemed wonderful to be able to walk right in the middle of the road again! Ted said he wanted to sing, but I advised him to curb the desire. We were a little hazy as to the treatment accorded prisoners by a neutral country.

We still kept west, thinking of the bulge in the German boundary to the south of us. The road was smooth and hard, and we felt so good that we seemed to be able to go as fast as we liked. Fatigue and hunger were forgotten. A man on a bicycle rode past us and shouted a greeting to us, to which we replied with a good, honest English "Good-night," instead of the sullen grunt we had hitherto been using to hide our nationality.

Cows were plentiful that night, and we got apples, too, from the orchards near the road. The only thing that troubled us was that our road had turned southwest, and we were afraid that it might lead us into the little strip of Germany. However, we went on a short distance.

Then we came to a place where there were many canals, some of them very large, and the straggling houses seemed to indicate a town. Afterwards we knew it was the town called Nieuwstadskanaal.

We took a poor road, leading west, and followed it over a heather moor, which changed after a mile or two into a peat-bog with piles of peat recently cut. We kept on going, until about five o'clock in the morning we came to a house. It looked desolate and unoccupied, and when we got close to it we found that it had been badly damaged by fire. But it made a good shelter for us, and we went into what had been the living-room, and lay down and slept. The floor was even and dry; it was the best bed we had had for twenty nights, and, relieved as we were from the fear of detection, we slept for hours.

* * *

When we awakened, the sun was pouring in at the curtainless windows, and we were as hungry as bears. "Now for a potato-feed," Ted said, looking out of the window at a fine field of potatoes across the road. The field had been reclaimed from the peat-bog, and some of the potatoes had already been dug and put into pits.

In looking around for material to light a fire, I saw scraps of newspapers, which I examined closely and found they were Dutch papers, one bearing the name of "Odoorn" and the other "Nieuwstadskanaal." This supported us in our belief that we were in Holland.

We got potatoes from the field and roasted them in the fire which we built in the fireplace.

A young Hollander, fired with curiosity, came to the door and looked in at us. We hailed him with delight and asked him to come right in, and be one of us! He came in rather gingerly, looking at us wide-eyed, and we were sorry to find he could not speak English. There were certain things we wanted to know!

We were drying our matches by the fire, for they had become rather damp, and our supply was getting low. Also our tobacco was done. So we said, "Tabac," showing him our empty pipes, and from the pocket of his coat he brought out a pouch, and we filled our pipes. I don't know whether he knew we had been prisoners or not. He drifted out in a few minutes, but I think he told others about us, for after we had had our smoke, and had gone to the canal to fix up, we found some interested spectators.

At the canal we washed, shaved, cleaned our teeth, combed our hair, and went as far as we could in getting ready to see people. Ted had his Canadian soldier's tunic, with the regular prisoner's dark-blue trousers such as the British Red Cross supplies. His tunic was torn in several places and his hair was unkempt and in need of cutting. He had cut the heels out of his boots, several days before, because they hurt him. I had the regular prisoner's suit, dark-blue cloth, and had cut off the yellow stripe which had been sewed down the legs of the trousers; I had also cut off my prison number. My boots had held well, and there was not even a hole in my socks. My hair was getting shaggy, and I suppose we were both looking fairly tough. Our clothes were wrinkled and crushed and dirty.

* * *

There was one older man who watched us, with many exclamations of friendliness, who, when we had concluded our efforts, made us understand that he wanted us to come with him to have something to eat. He could speak no English, but he made us understand. We went back to the deserted house, gathered up our things, and went with him. Two young fellows came along, too, and we were taken to a canal-boat near by.

The woman who waited on the breakfast table in the canal-boat, and served us with rye-bread, margarine, and coffee, gave us hard looks, which made us think her heart was still in the fatherland. Conversation was naturally difficult, because no one of them could speak English, but we began to ask about Rotterdam, for we knew that that would be the port from which we should sail, and we were anxious to know how to get there. One of the young men, a fine-looking fellow with a frank, pleasing countenance, said something and made gestures, which made us think he would take us there in his boat.

We started out with him and his companion, not sorry to leave the sour-faced lady who glared at us, and walked along the road beside the canal. We were on the outskirts of Odoorn, a town whose chief industry is the shipping of peat. It being Sunday, nobody was working, and the people, especially the children, came out to see us. The young man took us to one of the houses and introduced us to his father and mother, who welcomed us kindly and wanted us to have something to eat. But we declined.

We were then taken by him along the road, and the crowd of children that followed us seemed to be growing bigger every minute. Our friend, anxious apparently to do the proper thing, took out his mouth-organ and played "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"—and it certainly hit the spot with us.

He conducted us to the home of the gendarme—and for a minute our old fear of being interned came back to us! The gendarme was plainly bored—he had been having a Sunday-afternoon sleep, and had not finished it. He yawned as he spoke.

The young man talked to him very earnestly, and at last he invited us in. Up to this time we had not heard a word of English. The gendarme's wife, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, brought in a tray and gave us tea, and little cakes with seeds on them, and soon a young man who could speak English came in to act as interpreter.

He began to question us, but we soon turned the conversation by questioning him. We asked him if there was any danger of our being interned? He told us we could be interned if we liked, but we hastened to assure him we should not like it.

Then he said we could stay in Holland and work, but again we declined. We wanted to go to England, we said.

He tried to dissuade us. Why go to England? That would mean going back into the army. Holland was the best and safest place!

We insisted that we wanted to go to England, and he warned us that if we wanted to change our minds we must do it now; because we couldn't change after we had "signed the paper." We were still sure we wanted to go!

The gendarme then went upstairs and came down in his uniform and took us out with him. We didn't know where he was taking us, but supposed it was to some place to make arrangements for our passage to England. When we came out of the house we found some women gathered there waiting for us, and a very poorly dressed woman, with a fine face, stepped up and gave us a small sum of money, which she had evidently collected for us. We thanked her warmly, and with sincere gratitude. Then we set out across country about four miles to Borger, where we were taken to the Burgomaster's house.

The Burgomaster's house was one of the best in the little town, and when we went in, we found there a young man, evidently calling on the daughter of the house, and he could speak English.

We were taken downtown to the Burgomaster's office, and official papers were made out, and we signed them. This was what the gendarme's interpreter had been telling us, about not being able to change our minds after we had signed the paper!

The Burgomaster evidently told the gendarme to take us to the hotel and have us fed, and by this time, after our walk, we were quite ready for something. When we offered them money for our meal—which was a good one—it was politely refused.

We were then taken to the home of one of the Borgen gendarmes where we stayed for the night. His name was H. Letema. We ate with the family and were treated with great kindness. The white bread and honey which we had for tea were a great treat to us. One of the other gendarmes gave Ted a pair of socks, and he was able to discard the strips of underwear. We had a bed made of straw, with good blankets, and it seemed like luxury to us.

The next morning Mr. Letema gave us each a postal-card addressed to himself, and asked us to write back telling him when we had safely reached England. Then another gendarme walked with us to Assen, which seemed to be a sort of police headquarters. We stayed there all day.

In the afternoon a Belgian girl came to see us, and although I tried hard to understand what she said, she talked so fast I could not follow her, although I knew a little French. She brought us some cigars, and we could see she wanted to show us her friendliness. When she went away, I deeply regretted my ignorance of the French language. But the Belgian girl came back in a little while, accompanied by a Holland woman who could speak English, and then we found out about her.

She had fled from Antwerp at the time of the bombardment, and was supporting herself by needlework at Assen, where she was the only Belgian person, and I suppose she was tired of "neutrals" and wanted to see us because we were of the Allies. She urged us to tell her what she could do for us, and we asked her for some postal-cards, so we could tell our friends that we had escaped. She sent them to us by her friend the interpreter, who also gave us some English books and a box of cigars.

That night a young gendarme took us upstairs to his room, which was nicely decorated with flags and pennants, and he told us the Germans could never conquer Holland, for they would cut the dykes—as they had done before. He showed us the picture of his fiancee, and proudly exhibited the ring she had given him.

The next day we were taken by another gendarme to Rotterdam by train, passing through Utrecht and in sight of the Zuider Zee. Arriving there, we were taken to the alien officer, who questioned us and wrote down what we told him. Then the gendarme took us to the British Consul, and left us there. The Consul shook hands with us and congratulated us on our escape, and put us in charge of a Vice-Consul, who was a Hollander.

We stayed at the "Seaman's Rest," which was in the same building as the British Consulate. There we met two Americans, who were very friendly and greatly interested in our escape. They encouraged us to talk about the prison-camps, and of what we had seen in Germany, but it was not long until we became suspicious and careful in our answers. One of them had an American passport, which seemed to let him have the freedom of the city; the other one had no passport, and complained that he could not get one, and it was causing him no end of inconvenience, for he found it impossible to get a job at his trade, which was that of "trimmer" on a vessel. He went every day to the docks, looking for a job, and acquired considerable information about ships and their time of sailing. At night, he and his friend were together, and the knowledge was no doubt turned over.

Mr. Neilson, Superintendent of the Sailors' Institute, very kindly invited us to go with him to The Hague, to see the Peace Temple, and it was then that we made bold to ask for some spending money. The Vice-Consul, the Hollander, was a thrift-fiend so far as other people were concerned, and it was only after Mr. Neilson had presented our claim, and we had used all the arguments we could think of, that we got about two dollars each.

Our clothes—too—had not yet been replaced with new ones, and we felt very shabby in our soiled uniforms. We mentioned this to the Vice-Consul, and told him that we believed the Canadian Government would stand by us to the extent of a new suit of clothes. He murmured something about the expenses being very heavy at this time. We ventured to remind him that the money would be repaid—Canada was still doing business!

The next day our American friends invited us to go to a picture show with them. We went, but at the door a gorgeously uniformed gentleman, who looked like a cross between a butler and an admiral, turned us back—that is, Ted and me. We had no collars on! The public had to be protected—he was sorry, but these were his orders.

Then we sought the Vice-Consul and told him if he did not get us decent clothes, we should go to the Consul. The next morning we got the clothes!

* * *

On the sixth night we sailed from Rotterdam, and the next morning, in a hazy dawn, we sighted, with glad hearts, the misty shores of England.

As we sailed up the Tyne, we saw war shops being built, and women among the workmen, looking very neat and smart in their working uniforms. They seemed to know their business, too, and moved about with a speed and energy which indicated an earnest purpose. Here was another factor which Germany had not counted on—the women of the Empire! Germany knew exactly how many troops, how many guns, how many ships, how much ammunition England had; but they did not know—never could know—the spirit of the English people!

They saw a country which seethed with discontent—Hyde Park agitators who railed at everything British, women who set fire to empty buildings, and destroyed mail-boxes as a protest against unfair social conditions—and they made the mistake of thinking that these discontented citizens were traitors who would be glad of the chance to stab their country to the heart. They knew that the average English found golf and cricket much more interesting than foreign affairs, so they were not quite prepared for that rush of men to the recruiting offices at the first call for volunteers! Englishmen may abuse their own country, but it is a different matter when the enemy is at the door. So they came,—the farmer, the clerk, the bank boy, the teacher, the student, the professional man, the writer, the crossing-sweeper, the cab-man,—high and low, rich and poor, old and young, they flocked to the offices, like the land-seekers in the West who form queues in front of the Homestead offices, to enter their land.

I thought of these first recruits—the "contemptible little army"—who went over in those first terrible days, and, insufficiently equipped as they were, went up against the overwhelming hosts of Germany with their superior numbers and equipment that had been in preparation for forty years.... and how they held back the invaders—though they had but one shell to the Germans' hundred—by sheer force of courage and individual bravery... and with such losses. I thought of these men as I stepped on the wharf at Newcastle, and it seemed to me that every country lane in England and every city street was hallowed by the unseen presence of the glorious and unforgotten dead!



CONCLUSION

I have been at home for more than a year now, and cannot return to the front. Apparently the British Government have given their word to the neutral countries that prisoners who escape from Germany, and are assisted by the neutral countries, will not be allowed to return to the fighting line. So even if my shoulder were well again, I could not go back to fight.

Ted and I parted in London, for I came back to Canada before he did. He has since rejoined his family in Toronto. I have heard from a number of the boys in Germany. Bromley tried to escape again, but was captured, and is now at a camp called Soltau. John Keith and Croak also tried, but failed. Little Joe, the Italian boy who enlisted with me at Trail, has been since exchanged—insane! Percy Weller, Sergeant Reid, and Hill, brother of the British Reservist who gave us our first training, have all been exchanged.

* * *

I am sorry that I cannot go back. Not that I like fighting—for I do not; but because I believe every man who is physically fit should have a hand in this great clean-up—every man is needed! From what I have seen of the German people, I believe they will resist stubbornly, and a war of exhaustion will be a long affair with a people so well trained and organized. The military class know well that if they are forced to make terms unfavorable to Germany, their power will be gone forever, and they would rather go down to defeat before the Allied nations than be overthrown by their own people. There is no doubt that the war was precipitated by the military class in Germany because the people were growing too powerful. So they might as well fight on, with a chance of victory, as to conclude an unsatisfactory peace and face a revolution.

The German people have to be taught one thing before their real education can begin. They have to be made to see—and the Allied armies are making it plainer every day—that war is unprofitable; that their army, great though it is, may meet a greater; that heavy losses may come to their own country. They need to be reminded that he that liveth by the sword may die by the sword!

The average German thinks that only through superior military strength can any good thing come to a nation. All their lives they have been taught that, and their hatred of England has been largely a result of their fear of England's superior strength. They cannot understand that England and the other Allies have no desire to dominate German affairs. They do not believe that there is an ethical side to this war. The Germans are pitifully dense to ethical values. They are not idealists or sentimentalists, and their imagination is not easily kindled.

Added to this, they have separated themselves from religion. Less than two per cent of the men attend church, and if the extracts we read from the sermons preached in their churches is a fair sample of the teaching given there, the ninety-eight who stay at home are better off than the two who go!



All these things have helped to produce a type of mind that is not moved by argument or entreaty, a national character that has shown itself capable of deeds of grave dishonesty and of revolting cruelty; which cannot be forgotten—or allowed to go unpunished!

But if their faith in the power of force can be broken—and it may be broken very soon—the end of the war will come suddenly.

* * *

The people at home are interested and speculative as to the returned soldiers' point of view. Personally, I believe that as the soldiers went away with diversity of opinions, so will they come home, though in a less degree. There will be a tendency to fusion in some respects. One will be in the matter of cooeperation; the civilian's ideas are generally those of the individual—he brags about his rights and resents any restriction of them. He is strong on grand old traditions, and rejoices in any special privileges which have come to him.

The soldier learns to share his comforts with the man next him; in the army each man depends on the other—and cannot do without him: there is no competition there, but only cooeperation. If loss comes to one man, or misfortune, it affects the others. If one man is poorly trained, or uncontrolled, or foolish, all suffer. If a badly trained bomber loses his head, pulls the pin of his bomb, and lets it drop instead of throwing it, the whole platoon is endangered. In this way the soldier unconsciously absorbs some of the principles of, and can understand the reason for, discipline, and acquires a wholesome respect for the man who knows his job.

He sees the reason for stringent orders in regard to health and sanitation. He does not like to get into a dirty bath himself, and so he leaves it clean for the next man. In other words, the soldier, consciously or unconsciously, has learned that he is a part of a great mass of people, and that his own safety, both commercially and socially, depends on the proper disciplining of the whole people.

The returned soldier will take kindly to projects which tend to a better equalization of duties, responsibilities, and pleasures. He will be a great stickler for this; if he has to work, every one else must work too. He will be hard against special privileges. He will be strong in his insistence that our natural resources be nationalized. He will go after all lines of industry now in the hands of large corporations, and insist on national supervision if not actual ownership.

In religion, he will not care anything about form. Denominationalism will bore him, but the vital element of religion, brotherly love and helping the other fellow, will attract him, wherever he finds it. He knows that religion—he believes in it.

The political parties will never be able to catch him with their worn-out phrases. Politicians had better begin to remodel their speeches. The iniquities of the other party will not do. There must be a breaking-out of new roads—old things have passed away!

The returned man will claim, above all things, honest dealing, and for this reason the tricky politicians who "put it over" in the pre-war days will not have so easy a time. "Guff" will not be well received. The leaders on the battle-field have been men who could look death in the face without flinching, so the political leaders at home must be men of heroism, who will travel the path of righteousness even though they see it leads by the way of the Cross!

* * *

There is a hard road ahead of us, a hard, steep road of sacrifice, and in it we must as a nation travel, although our feet are heavy and our eyes are dim. The war must be won; human liberty is worth the price—whatever the price may be!

We do not travel as those who have no hope, for we know, though we cannot see it, that at the top of the mountain the sun is shining on a cleaner, fairer, better world.

THE END