My Escape from Germany 24

My Escape from Germany 24

It took me less than ten minutes to find the path. The groping about in

the darkness of the wood had taken my mind off the real issue. Now, on

my way back, I had to face the ugly situation we were in.

 

I had not enough medical knowledge to gage the insignificance of the

accelerated heart action, and thus almost feared the worst. If only he

could be sick! Perhaps he was going to die on my hands! If he lived

through the night, could I hope that his strength would return to him

on the morrow and allow us to proceed?

 

One thing was out of the question: I could not leave him alone, even if

he was out of danger and in shelter, for we were both fully persuaded

that, in the event of capture, we should be sent to a penal prison. But

what was to be done? Wallace could not lie out in the cold the rest of

the night and all the next day. The only shelter reasonably near was

the barn, which we had passed some time before. We should have to go

back to it. We had to reach it, even if I had to carry him.

 

The snow, which had come on again, was whispering in the trees when I

entered among them, groping in the thick darkness for his recumbent

form. It sifted straight down through the still air, while the wind

shrieked and roared overhead. He called feebly when I came close to him

in my blind search.

 

“Well, how goes it?” I inquired, with seeming cheerfulness.

 

“I think I’m better.” This through chattering teeth. “But I’m

aw-aw-awfully cold.”

 

“Get up. I’ll help you.”

 

“I-I-I don’t want to.”

 

“But you can’t stay here,” I protested. “You’d be frozen stiff before

morning. We’ve got to get back to that barn we passed.”

 

“A-a-aren’t you going to lie down, too? We might keep each other warm.”

 

“No, I’m not,” very emphatically. “Get up, d’you hear, get up!”

 

Partly by sheer force I got him out of the thing we had bought for a

sleeping-bag. Already the wet had penetrated in places. While Wallace

stood leaning against a tree, I groped round for our knapsacks.

 

Carrying the double burden, which privilege cost me another struggle

with Wallace, I led back over the ground which we had covered on our

way up, my friend lurching drunkenly by my side. Then he fell and lay

in a faint, but recovered quickly. After I had got him on his feet

again, I kept his arm, supporting him as much as I could. Every few

hundred steps or so he half collapsed, his knees doubling under him.

When this happened I let him slide to the ground, thus to get some rest.

 

I do not know how often this had occurred when I noticed something

wrong about the road. The clearing on the left, with stumps standing

black against white snow patches--surely I could not have twice missed

noticing it! The ground, too, fell rather sharply. “Traveling toward

the Wesel road!” I thought. “I remember no villages there, if I

recollect the map.”

 

Wallace had been sitting on the ground all this time. I helped him to

his feet and urged him on: “We’ve got to be traveling! Up hill now!

Awfully sorry, old chap, but I missed the road.”

 

Three rests, and the old track was under our feet. Three more, and we

were drawing near to the little settlement.

 

“It’ll not be very long now, old man; cheer up!” I said encouragingly.

 

“Mus’ get into warmth. Knock first house come to. Can’t stick it,”

Wallace muttered in reply.

 

“Try to make that barn, won’t you? It’s close by.”

 

We came abreast of a house with a light in the passage, which showed

dimly through some panes of glass above the front door. The time must

have been about 2:30 A.M.

 

Wallace stopped and peered at it. “Is that a house?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Knock!” and with a contented sigh he slid to the ground.

 

I was not prepared to give up so soon. That is what his command meant,

as it appeared to me. My pal moved and struggled into a sitting

position.

 

“Knock!” he repeated.

 

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, but less determined. The same

result. The third time my knuckles met the wood with a nice regard for

the sleepers inside. I did not intend them to hear me; it was only for

Wallace’s satisfaction that I went through this performance.

 

“They don’t hear,” I announced, having gone back to my companion. “Come

on, make another effort. Let’s get to the barn. It’s only a few more

steps,” I urged.

 

“Did you knock?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“Yes, three times!” I replied, with veracious if somewhat misleading

detail, and I dragged him up and on.

 

At last we reached it. Wallace was soon resting in the same place as

he did hours before, while I went to get a ladder. Three of them were

wedged in on one side between a wheel of the wagon and a support of the

barn, and by the compressed straw on the other. I tore, and heaved, and

struggled with berserk rage until I got one out, the sweat pouring from

underneath my hat brim. It was an enormously clumsy affair, and trying

to rear it against the barn and into the door opening off the loft, I

failed again and again by an inch or two. After a brief rest I went at

it again. The last inch seemed unattainable. Another effort! Suddenly

it leaped right up and into position. Turning in surprise, I saw my

friend standing behind me. His little strength had been added to mine

just at the right moment.

 

“I’ll go up first and have a look!” I told him. The rear of the loft

was four feet deep in clean-smelling straw. Thank God for that! We

should be warm!

 

“Up you go!” I was on the ground again to help Wallace up the ladder.

He managed to ascend it, and then pitched forward. I let him lie and

fetched our knapsacks. The ladder I left in position for the time

being. If a few hours’ rest would improve my friend to such an extent

that it became feasible to “carry on” during the following night, I

intended to drag it up after us, and hide it at the rear of the barn,

where I proposed to conceal ourselves. It would not be missed on a

Sunday.

 

A hearty heave and shove sent Wallace sprawling on the straw. Soon I

had a hollow dug for him, into which he crawled, and I covered him as

best I could. Then I flung myself down by his side, too fagged to care

for overcoat or covering.

 

Fighting against the drowsiness which immediately stole over me, I

must have fallen asleep for a short spell, for I felt suddenly very

cold. Too tired to move immediately, I lay shivering, listening to the

dying wind and the faint beating of snow against the thin walls and

the roof of our shelter. When the cold became intolerable, I crawled

with stiff joints into the corner where I had flung our knapsacks, got

my overcoat out, and put it on. The exercise cleared my dulled brain,

and I perceived that I had better look after Wallace. His teeth were

chattering when I bent over him. As well as I could, I got him warmer

after a time. I now kept wide awake, trying to piece together what was

left of our hopes.

 

I did not anticipate hearing any one stirring in the few houses around

until late daylight, and dully wondered at the sound of voices which

penetrated to our hiding-place, hours before some chinks in the roof

showed faintly gray. We could not see the door from where we rested.

 

With an effort I turned to Wallace. “Are you awake?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you feel you’ve got to get into warmth?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That means going to a farm and meeting people!”

 

“Yes.”

 

Poor Wallace! His voice sounded so flat and tired! I have often

wondered since whether I ought not to have made another effort to keep

him where he was, and to proceed with him the next night. He might

have stood it. I don’t think he quite realized what it meant getting

into shelter. I believed at the time that he did. However, I acted

according to my lights, without another word.

 

Sliding from the straw I approached the door, to stop in wonder for a

moment before going down the ladder. Long icicles had grown from the

upper edge of the opening almost to the floor of the loft in the few

hours we had been inside, and between them the cold light of a winter

morning, strongly reflected by a white, unbroken surface, met my eyes.

It was eight o’clock by my watch. The icicles snapped with a glassy

sound and fell noiselessly outside when I broke through their curtain.

 

Beyond it the world was white,--the ground, as far as I could see it; the air, thick with dancing flakes; and the sky. What mattered it now whether we stayed in the loft or sought the shelter of a farm?