My Escape from Germany 38

My Escape from Germany 38

Our route would be across the northern half of the moor. I had talked

it over with my companions many a time.

 

“There is this large forest at the north end of the swamp. If the

recent rains have made the swamp impassable, we’ll have to make for it

and try to cross the frontier where it runs through the wood. I should

hate to have to do that. A hundred to one, sentries there will be as

thick as flies in summer. But we may have no alternative. For that

eventuality, we will take the most favorable course across the swamp,

walking west by north. Since we must continually go round bad places,

we will make all corrections northerly, and thus edge off toward the

wood, and lessen the distance in that way.

 

“These two roads, parallel to the river, which we shall have to cross

before getting on to the swamp proper, will be dangerous. I shouldn’t

wonder if sentries and patrols were to be found on them. But I cannot

imagine how they can easily relieve a man on a trackless morass; can

you?”

 

At 5:30 we ate our last meal. A very slender one it was. We reserved

only some chocolate and the tin of Horlick’s malted milk tablets, which

we always had looked upon as our emergency ration. These we divided

into equal shares.

 

At 5:45 I advised the cutting of long, stout staves. They would be

useful, I thought, for the work ahead of us. I had no idea that they

would make all the difference between failure and success.

 

At 6 o’clock we could not stick it any longer inside the thicket. We

made our way out, and walked up and down behind the bushes, waiting for

darkness.

 

Of course we were on edge. I do not think we had had in all eighteen

hours’ sleep since Saturday. It was now Friday. And we were merely

waiting, waiting for the time when we could act, when the game was to

be decided. We were not very nervous, but we were subdued. I think

we all believed we should succeed, although I tried to look on the

black side of things. It seemed so impossible that three years--three

years!--of captivity should come to an end. Did we look far ahead? I

remember that my mind went no farther than to visualize a river, a mile

or so across the border, which was to tell us that we were free!

 

The sun had disappeared, the wind lulled into silence. The sky, brushed

free of clouds, spanned pale blue from sky-line to sky-line. A crescent

moon had peeped her last over the western rim of the world, and

followed the sun. The shadows were growing dense underneath bush and

canopied foliage.

 

The river murmured sleepily as we went to drink. Tynsdale crouched

against the steep bank and handed up the full bottles, one by one. We

took up our staves and very slowly walked down the river, before it was

quite dark, looking for open country on the left.

 

The stars had come out, one after another. Quickly their numbers

increased, until myriads of them twinkled and glittered. It was an

absolutely ideal night for our purpose.

 

The oaks on our left came to an end. A shallow depression, with the

glint of water here and there, intervened between us and the rising

ground some distance away.

 

“Here we start,” said I, “on our last lap!”

 

* * * * *

 

“Eight-thirty,” said Kent.

 

“Come on!” I answered.

 

Descending from the river bank, we found the ground most difficult.

Two or three wide drainage ditches were crossed with the help of their

sluice-gates, smaller ones we jumped with our staves. Then came marshy

meadows and open patches of water. For about an hour we were almost

always in over our ankles, frequently much deeper, wandering through

the shallowest places.

 

In a sort of dell, on rising ground now, with small copses to right,

left, and in front, we halted, removed our boots and emptied them of

water, and wrung out our socks and trousers. This was quite necessary.

The squirting noise of our steps advertised our presence a long way in

the still night.

 

Here, if I mistake not--it may have been a little later--we arranged

the order of our march. I took the van. My task was to pick the way

to keep the direction. Kent, next, was to pay particular attention to

our nearer surroundings, try to spot danger--sentries and patrols,

etc.--and keep count of the time. Every four or five hundred yards he

was to signal “down,” when we were to “flop.” By this manœuver we would

contract the horizon and, perhaps, spot sentries against the sky-line.

Tynsdale, in the rear, was to check the direction, and speak, if he saw

me apparently make a wrong move. All of us were to keep our eyes wide

open and all senses on the alert.

 

When we topped the rise we sank down silently. There was the first

road, across our course, hardly discernible on the black, flat expanse.

Nothing moved; no sound, except that of our own breathing, disturbed

the stillness. Obliquely across some fields we came to the second road.

 

Again we crouched. “All’s well. Go on.”

 

After that, a smooth, very springy surface made agreeable walking for a

short time.

 

“Hou--” I started.

 

“Houses to left and right in front!” whispered Kent. Again we looked

and listened.

 

They were two small single structures, standing perhaps three hundred

yards apart, as if dropped from a giant child’s play-box. When I had

led through the space between, a path was found to run past them.

 

Now began the swamp proper, as flat and as black, at first, as a

congealed lake of asphalt, covered with the same exceedingly short

growth we had already encountered, like very tiny heather plants, or

their densely intertwined roots, and very springy with the concealed

bog underneath.

 

With the greatest care I kept the north star just a little in front

of my right shoulder. We were advancing rapidly. There seemed no

possibility of sentries standing on a trackless waste.

 

I felt very sure of myself, very much exhilarated, very happy. We had

time to notice our surroundings. They were eerie in the extreme. We

were in the center of a perfect circle, black as pitch, except for some

whitish patches ahead.

 

Those whitish patches came nearer. The first we approached I tested

with my staff. Firm sand! They increased in number, flowed together

here and there. Only narrow black strips now, connected with larger

black areas beyond. Suddenly, one of the white spaces, not a whit

different to look at from those we had already crossed, was water.

Correction north. They were all water! We were being pushed to the

north at a great rate. So I corrected southerly once or twice, at

first, then alternately with a northerly deviation.

 

It was nerve-racking business to pick the way. Our deliberate halts and

surveys had grown more infrequent as the involuntary ones increased in

number. Occasionally we had seen and crossed a track.

 

I think Kent had just announced “Twelve o’clock,” when--

 

“Pfattt!” said a rifle, far to the north. We stared intently in the

direction of the sound.

 

“Pfattt!” it repeated spitefully; “pfattt!”

 

We could not see the spit of flame. It must have been in the wood.

Later, when we met the men whom the bullets had been meant for, this

proved to be correct.

 

Without a word to the others I turned due west. The swamps are kindlier

than German riflemen.

 

We left off making any remarks. We were too strung up for talk.

 

“This is a patch of a different kind,” I thought. Like dull silver

it gleamed under the stars, not half as bright as the others. The

ground was very unstable all about us. I could feel slow waves rolling

sluggishly under my feet, caused by my own and my companions’ footsteps

on the thin carpet of vegetable matter covering the morass. When I

tested the patch I found it to be slime. Correction southerly, all

southerly now, to edge away from the wood. The areas of slime increased

in number, multiplied, flowed together. The third I came to seemed to

offer some resistance to the probing staff at first, then the pole went

in as into water. I lost my balance. My left foot swung forward, to

find another hold. Instantly it was under the surface. Just as quick

Kent’s arms were about me. Violently he jerked me back, I clinging to

my staff.

 

“Thanks!”

 

The ground got worse and worse. Some of the slimy places which appeared

firmer than the rest we crossed. Flat-footedly we slithered over them

one after the other, our staves held horizontally.

 

Abruptly we were in the peat cuttings--great yawning holes and

ditches, running mainly from north to south, black, with sometimes a

star or two, mirrored in the foul water a foot or so below the edge.

The passage had to be made across bridges of standing peat, hardly ever

more than two feet wide, which swayed as we shuffled over them. I held

grimly to the western course, as well as I could. Going south seemed

easier, but that direction meant no progress toward the frontier,

rather the reverse. And north? No, thank you! Not after those shots.

 

I was standing precariously balanced on a peat bridge, the pole thrown

far forward as a third leg--oh, those precious poles!--when a splash

sounded behind, and a gurgling noise. Kent had gone in.

 

“What’s happened? Can’t you help him? I can’t!” I called to Tynsdale.

 

We were under far too great a stress to feel any particular emotion.

At any rate, I was. And as to helping, I couldn’t even turn my head

without losing my balance.

 

Before Tynsdale could reply, I heard a slight scramble, the swishing of

water, and then Kent’s subdued voice expressing his entirely unsubdued

opinion about peat cuttings. Part of his particular bridge had crumbled

under his foot. He had fallen into a hole. The stout oak sapling,

carried firmly in both hands, one end of it rammed into the ground for

a hold, had fallen across the opening, its other end descending on firm

ground. It had kept Kent suspended. Only his legs had gone into the water.