My Escape from Germany 35

My Escape from Germany 35

Our resting-place on the bank of the ditch had been selected from the

standpoint of concealment only. It was most uncomfortable to lie on.

Before the sun had cleared the horizon, we were awake again.

 

The rain had ceased after midnight, and now a boisterous wind

was dispersing the last clouds which hurried across the sky from

the northeast, tinted rosily on their under side. The air was

extraordinarily clear. Its refreshing coolness quickly drove the last

cloying remnants of sleep from our brains. The sun rose. Far away, to

the east, the church spire of Werfte stood sharply defined above the

smudge of green which indicated the village.

 

I crept away from my friends during the morning to glean some

information, if possible, by a look from the other side of the thicket,

toward the west. The pale blue of the sky above, speckled by hurrying

clouds, the flat rim of the sky-line, broken by two distant villages,

the line of the road by which we had come, continuing toward the large

village of Soegel, and a solitary farm, seven hundred yards away, made

up the landscape. While I lay watching behind a furze bush a country

cart crept across my circle of vision. Between me and the invisible

road a number of cattle sounded unmelodius bells with every hasty

movement of their heads.

 

“We needn’t look for the road to-night. It’s there, to the west,” I

announced, rejoining my friends. “We can break camp early and get water

as soon as dusk is setting in. After that we’ll go northwesterly across

country, turn north on the road,” etc. I outlined the next night’s

march. Our plans were very elaborate, but came to naught.

 

“All right,” my companions nodded assent. “Now have something to eat.”

They were munching away at their rations. For a time we chatted in

excellent spirits.

 

“There is a much better place to lie in just behind us. It looks safe

enough,” suggested Tynsdale, worming his way back to us through the

bushes after a short absence.

 

“Yes; let’s shift! I saw it, too,” seconded Kent.

 

So we shifted, and soon lay comfortably ensconced in the lee of some

bushes. Here we were bothered by mosquitoes, for the air was still, but

we felt warm, and managed to snatch some sleep during the remainder of

the day.

 

At 8:30 P.M. we were plodding through the heather toward the lake,

which glimmered at the bottom of a shallow depression. We were licking

our lips in anticipation of the drink we were going to have. Two

hundred yards from the shore the ground became marshy, then a quagmire.

We strung out in line abreast in order to find a firm path to the

water’s edge, but had to desist in the face of impossibilities.

 

Rain had been threatening for the last four hours, but was still

holding off, when we got on to the road, and proceeded north. We had

walked steadily for an hour or so. The night was pitch-dark. Black and

flat swamp-land extended all round to the indistinct horizon. Here and

there the lighter streaks of ditches, full of foul, stagnant water,

were ruled across the black expanse. The wires of a telephone line on

our right hummed in the wind.

 

We were walking as best we could--I a little in front on the right,

Tynsdale on the other side of the road, Kent almost treading on my

heels. The ribbon of turf underneath my feet seemed fairly broad.

 

A sudden splash behind me caused me to stop and whirl round. A white

face at my feet heaved itself, as it seemed, out of the ground, and

Kent scrambled back on to the road, squirting water from every seam.

 

“Did _you_ know you were walking within half an inch of a ditch? How is

it _you_ didn’t fall in?” he demanded savagely of me.

 

“Are you hurt?” I counter-questioned anxiously.

 

“Not a bit! The water was just deep enough to cover me entirely, except

my knapsack. That seems dry,” he answered, feeling himself all over.

“I’ve lost my hat, though.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“No, I don’t think so. Never mind the old hat. I hardly ever wear it.”

 

“Come on, then! Keep moving, or you’ll catch a chill.”

 

After about one hour and a half, during which a number of paths had

demonstrated the unreliability of our maps in this locality, none

of them being marked, a cart road on our left proved too much of a

temptation for me.

 

“Are you fellows game,” I asked, “to follow me over uncharted ground?

I feel certain I can do better by compass alone, and probably save us

several miles.”

 

“Don’t make speeches, old man; get along. We’ll follow.”

 

I was fortunate in being able to justify this move. Three quarters of

an hour afterward we struck a highway a mile in front of the village

of Spahn, our nearest objective. Pleased with myself, I announced a

clear gain of about three miles. Here we took it easy for about twenty

minutes, sitting in the road, with our feet in the ditch. Kent and

Tynsdale had a draft from the brandy flask, and we all had something to

eat.

 

“This is the fifth shrine we’ve seen since Monday night. I always

thought northern Germany was entirely Protestant,” Kent remarked when

our scouting for water at the entrance of a settlement had led us

around the structure.

 

“We’d much prefer a well, anyway,” was our unanimous opinion.

 

We simply had to have water. After searching among the houses we

finally found a rain-tub half full of it. It contained a fair number

of insect larvæ, to judge from the tiny, soft bodies passing over

our tongues while we drank, but we continued our march with heavy

water-bottles.

 

The name of the village, in black letters on a white board, dispelled

any possible doubt as to our position. A white post close to this sign

elicited my angry comment:

 

“I’d like to know how many of these beastly poles with the direction

boards missing we’ve seen so far! Do the Boches think they can make it

more difficult for an invading army or something, by knocking their

sign-posts to pieces?”

 

For the next hour and a half our way lay through dense forest. The

straight, very wide clearing which served as a road was ankle-deep

in sand. As it yielded and gave way under the backward pressure of

our hurrying feet, it produced the nightmarish sensation of striving

hopelessly in a breathless flight against a retarding force. Thousands

of fireflies dotted the roadside with points of greenish light, or

drew curves of phosphorescence in the air. A heavy shower urged us to

assume the sweltering protection of our raincoats. Several times I

checked the direction of the road at its beginning, and even borrowed

Tynsdale’s compass for the purpose, as the needle of mine seemed to

move sluggishly, but I noticed nothing wrong.

 

* * * * *

 

The next village, which we entered soon after midnight, looked quite

different from what we had expected. It was of considerable size.

The streets were in darkness, although electric street lamps were

installed. But the yellow squares of numerous lighted windows told of

many inhabitants not yet in bed. Near the church we turned into a road

on our right. Among the last houses I checked the road’s direction.

 

“It isn’t the road we want,” was my conclusion. “Leading too directly

north. We’d better go back and look for the right one. What d’you

think?”

 

“D’you think it safe?”

 

“Well, we haven’t much time to spare. But the streets are dark enough.

We might risk it.”

 

Again we passed in front of the church. In what looked like the

vicarage at one side, three large windows lit the road in front. A

shadow passed over the blinds. A door banged. Hurriedly we dived into

the shadow farther on. The footfalls of a single man sounded behind us,

ominously determined it seemed. It was too dark to see more than three

or four yards, but we were sincerely glad when the sound was gradually

left behind and we found ourselves in the open country on a sort of

cart track.

 

“This isn’t the road, either. Too far west this time,” was my

conclusion. “The former road is the better of the two. We’ll strike

back to it across-country.”

 

We did so in twenty minutes’ work over fields. It soon began to tally

better with the direction on the map. Two hours through firefly

infested forest saw us enter another village, as dark and as safe as

any we had yet passed through. At its farther end we stopped.

 

“We’ve simply got to see whether we can’t get more water,” I said. “I

don’t really know where we are. I expect it will be all right, but I

do not know how long it will take us to find a brook. These farms must

have a water-supply somewhere. Just wait at the corner here. I’ll go

scouting. If anything happens to me, I’ll make enough noise to let you

know of it. Then you can scoot out of the village and wait for me a

reasonable time somewhere along the road.” And I left them protesting

mildly.

 

Across a manure-littered farmyard I splashed stealthily into a sort of

kitchen-garden, as it turned out. Standing there I used my flashlight

once for a look round. From behind me, right over my head and in easy

reach, stretched the large branch of a tree, bending under a heavy

load of apples. The first I touched remained in my hand at once, which

showed them to be ripe. I crammed my pockets and filled my hat. I got

almost thirty. Then I joined my companions, who were getting impatient

and anxious. It never occurred to me to send Tynsdale and Kent to

get their quota, nor did they think of suggesting it. I am still

regretting the omission. We divided the spoils, and sank our teeth into

the hard, juicy, sweet flesh of the fruit which had tempted the Mother

of us all.

 

At the end of the village a broken sign-board lay in the ditch:

“Village of Wahn, Borough of ----, District of ----,” etc. With a

sinking heart I fumbled for my map.

 

“Form round and let’s have a look,” I said. “Here we are! I’m beastly

sorry; I’ve been a fool! We took the wrong road at Spahn. That big

village was Soegel, not Werpeloh, as I thought. No wonder we were

puzzled. No wonder I almost got us into a hopeless mess. Fortunately

we are clear now, and, but for water, better off, if anything, than on

our proper route. Let’s be traveling now, and see whether we can make

Kluse. It’s a little over six miles.”

 

The mistake was a very bitter pill for me to swallow. The fact that no

harm had come of it was little consolation. One simply must not make

mistakes on an escape.

 

Forest and swamp-land, telegraph-poles and fireflies, and drumming showers of rain, and we were, oh, so tired!