My Escape from Germany 19

My Escape from Germany 19

We were fortunate in having a considerable number of private books.

In addition to these, the Ruhleben camp library sent us consignments

which we returned for others. From serious and instructive books to the

lightest kind of literature, we were plentifully supplied with reading

matter.

 

Sometimes we managed to get hold of an English newspaper. They were on

sale in Berlin but strictly forbidden to us prisoners. The reason for

this prohibition has always been to me one of the inexplicable vagaries

of the German mind. The “Daily Telegraph” and the “Daily Mail” were

read on the sly, mostly after lock-up time, by one after the other,

until they fell to pieces.

 

The royal game of chess was a great consolation. It was played to

excess, often resulting in staleness.

 

* * * * *

 

The first two escapers to arrive after me were C. and L., a happy

combination of Scotland and Ulster. They had gotten away from camp

in a very adventurous fashion, to be caught three days later by an

unfortunate combination of love and flowers.

 

At dawn, one morning, they had found excellent cover in a clump of

lilac bushes growing close to an unfrequented road. In the course

of the morning a German soldier, fully armed, was passing their

hiding-place, when he caught sight of the lilacs in bloom. Some

flaxen-haired maiden must have been in his thoughts, for he started to

gather a bunch of them. Only the best flowers would do, of course, but

they were inside the thicket, away from the chance passerby. With his

eyes lifted in search of the blooms, the soldier did not see the two

fugitives until he trod on them. Before they had time to do anything,

he had them covered with his rifle.

 

When C. and L. came out of “solitary,” they and Wallace and I soon

became good friends. Naturally, we discussed the chances of another

attempt to escape from prison. If possible, we would make that attempt

together. For this purpose it would be desirable to be in one cell.

 

There were four big cells on each landing at the three corners of the

courtyard. They were by far the most desirable, with good company to

share them with you. They had a water-tap and a private lavatory, and

their cubic capacity per man was considerably greater than that of the

single cells. When one of these on the fourth floor became temporarily

empty at the beginning of July, the four of us asked for and obtained

permission to take it.

 

We all felt a little doubtful about the experiment at first, but it

turned out magnificently; and for all purposes we were a very strong

combination.

 

As far as I was concerned, the happiest time of the whole of my three

years as a prisoner of war was spent in that cell. I slept well again,

and I lost the restless feeling which had obsessed me while in a cell

by myself, for I had gone through a time of great spiritual loneliness

before C. and L. arrived. Now I simply basked and expanded in this

circle of congenial companionship. I seldom cared to leave the cell,

and almost ceased visiting my other friends in theirs.

 

* * * * *

 

Generally speaking, the internment in the Stadtvogtei was no worse

than the internment in Ruhleben camp. The latter was healthier, and

there were ever so many more distractions, with opportunities for sport

and serious work. The camp could be almost pleasant in summer, but it

was terrible in wet or cold weather. The prison was always the same,

neither hot nor cold. Climatic conditions, the changes of the seasons,

did not affect us at all. Ruhleben was one of the dirtiest places in

the world; Stadtvogtei was always clean and dry.

 

We worked hard, nevertheless, to bring about our return to Ruhleben.

Whether any of us preferred the life in camp or that in prison, on one

point we were all agreed: the camp was much easier to escape from.

 

So we sent periodical petitions to the Kommandantur in Berlin for

transfer to Ruhleben, and on the rare occasions when a representative

from the American Embassy or, later on, from the Dutch Legation, paid

us an unexpected visit we never failed to complain bitterly about

the injustice of being kept in prison. But these complaints did not

avail. It was probably due to the comparative charm of the life in a

big cell that no actual attempt was made by us four between June and

October, 1916. Discussions of ways and means were frequent, of course,

in secret meetings throughout the house. For a long time the plans

under consideration always involved the destruction of iron bars in

front of our windows and the erection of a light scaffolding made from

table boards and legs. This scaffolding was to help us gain the roof,

and less perilously than the method favored by our friend Wallace. But

Wallace was a crag-climber in civil life. We understood perfectly that

his hobby had affected his brain and would not allow him to climb to

any high point unless he could, by stealth or cunning, do it in the

most dangerous way. Under pressure, however, he was still sane enough

to relinquish his idea--for this once. We applied the pressure. Once on

the flat roof of our portion of the prison we were to traverse it for

some distance, and then drop down the face of a blank wall, sixty feet

high, by means of a rope we had plaited from strings saved from our

parcels. I doubt whether the rope was quite long enough.

 

We finally hit upon another plan. Its attractions were very tempting in

comparison with the first one, and we tried to put it into execution.

 

If we could get out of our cell at night and open a window on the first

floor, we could easily drop into the street. As I have mentioned in an

earlier chapter, the windows of the prison overlooking the street were

not barred on the outside except on the ground floor. These were made

impassable by iron gratings on the inside which opened like a door, and

were unlocked by the same key that fitted the locks of our cell doors.

The windows themselves were opened by a hollow square key. A pair of

small strong pliers would do as well.

 

The corridors were almost incessantly patrolled at night. The necessity

of trying to dodge the patrol would be not only disturbing but somewhat

difficult.

 

Next the stairs, on each landing, was a room used for various purposes.

These rooms were not patrolled. The one on the first floor which was

naturally the most attractive to us was labeled “CLERK.” This too

had the same lock as the cell doors. In there we should be quite

undisturbed while attending strictly to duty.

 

We made a key out of a piece of thick wire and the tin lid of a

priceless beer-glass. The lid was beautifully and appropriately

engraved. So was the glass, which had a considerable sentimental

value. Wallace, the rightful owner, sacrificed the lid on the altar

of the common weal. With the wire as a core we cast the key in a

plaster-of-Paris mold and filed it to fit. C. filed it. He would not

let anybody else touch it. He now holds it as his most treasured

souvenir of the war.

 

It was not at all difficult to obtain the plaster of Paris for the

mold. The making of the key was an extremely simple affair altogether,

though it sounds extremely romantic.

 

The opening of the cell door was an outside job, for the lock was quite

inaccessible from the inside with any of the instruments we possessed.

One of us had to get himself locked out by mistake, hide somewhere

in the prison, and release the others at the proper time. Wallace

volunteered to do this. He got the job.

 

On the top floor of the building, in a sort of blind corner, was the

prison library. It was separated from the rest of the corridor by a

wood-and-glass partition. Above its door was an opening large enough to

offer an easy passage for Wallace’s small but athletic frame. As the

library would hardly be used after lock-up, Wallace would be more than

reasonably safe there during his vigil.

 

We intended to walk from Berlin to the Baltic Sea and make the passage

to the nearest Danish island in any kind of craft we could dishonestly

come by.

 

* * * * *

 

“All there?” asked the N.C.O. in charge of our corridor at seven

o’clock of the evening fixed for the new venture.

 

C. and I were sitting opposite each other at chess. L. was bending with

knitted brows over another chess board. The stool opposite him was

empty.

 

“Yes,” I answered absently, without lifting my eyes from the board.

 

“Where’s Ellison?” using Wallace’s surname.

 

I looked up and made a motion toward the privy our cell boasted.

 

“All right. _Gute Nacht._”

 

“Good night, Herr Unterofficier!”

 

The door swung closed and the bolt shot home. L. continued playing

chess with himself, still with that concentrated look of his. C. was

mean enough to take an unfair advantage of my inattention and declared

“mate” after ten or twelve more moves.

 

Then we talked disjointedly with long pauses after each remark. “Wace

must have managed all right.” “Seems so.” “Too early to do anything

yet.” “Oh, I don’t know. If they come in here again to-night, the

game will be up anyway.” “Not necessarily; we might have luck.” “We

certainly need it for the next ten days or so.” “Oh,” with the long

yawn of nervousness, “let’s eat.” “All right, let’s eat.” We ate. Then

we started dressing. Double sets of underwear in my case, and also

collar and tie. I had almost finished, though my two friends still

looked pretty much as usual, when we heard footsteps approach our door

and the rattle of the key in the lock. With a white stiff collar around

my neck, albeit without coat or waistcoat, I took a flying leap toward

the door and into such a position that the whole of my person except my

face would be concealed by one of our two-storied bed structures. It

was our N.C.O. who appeared through the opening door. Without coming

farther than half a step into the cell he handed me, who was nearest

to him, a bundle of letters from “Blighty” and disappeared again.

 

We completed our preparations and then lay down on our bunks in order

to get as much sleep as possible while there was a chance. We did not

get much during the next five hours. We were under the nervous stress

of having to wait for somebody else to act. The hours seemed to be of

Jupiterian size. Occasionally one of us would turn over and mutter

something, mostly commenting upon the situation we were in, expressing

his views briefly and forcibly. Now and then I lost consciousness in

brief spells of slumber. I think our emotions were not very different

from those experienced by men who are waiting for the zero hour to go

over the top. As my brief fighting experience was in the artillery, I cannot speak with authority.