THREE TIMES A PRISONER OF THE

GERMANS

ANYONE who has suffered the mud of Flanders for even a day will understand with what joy I forsook it-after a year in the Ypres salient-for Italy. After, however, a relatively paradisial four months there, the 41st Division was rushed back to Northern France and a few weeks later-on about the 23rd of March-a doubly unkind fortune found me a prisoner behind the German lines. We were, officers and men, some score or so in all. As soon as, being totally surrounded, we yielded, we were sent to a camp not far behind the lines. I escaped the third night, after an unsuccessful attempt on the preceding day.

Having got to Trith St. Léger at midnight, I knocked at a cottage door. A woman's voice answered and, on learning who I was, opened at once. It was terribly dangerous for her, but though afraid she both fed me and gave me my disguise. I was, as a matter of fact, not wholly in khaki even before I crawled under the camp wires, as an Argyll and Sutherland Highlander, who knew of my intentions, had insisted on giving me his clothes -a workman's thin blue coat and a chauffeur's cap which, together with a fine pair of velvet trousers, he had got in exchange for his kilt from some French civilians. I remember he asked me to take him too, but, on my refusing, had pressed these clothes upon me.

Completely disguised as a French working-man, therefore, I set out, reaching the Belgian Frontier the following afternoon curiously enough at the fortunate moment the German police were at their dinner. I had no difficulty in crossing, and was housed by the village people at the first Belgian village, there being no danger as the German troops had just left. The one thing about me that attracted universal interest at this time was, not my accent, but my boots. They were the subject of the greatest envy, leather having been more than worth its weight in gold under German domination. Everyone's eyes-to my terror -used to be glued to my feet in the streets or trams.

The Germans had, during the first hours of my escape, twice accosted me, the first occasion being on the very night I crawled under the wires. I had followed two solitary figures I saw

walking ahead of me in the silent streets of Trith St. Léger, thinking they were French civilians. My horror may be imagined when they turned round, hearing my footsteps, and I saw two Germans before me.

'You are very late out,' said the police. 'Have you papers on you? Why are you not in your house?'

I discovered that I was blessed with a gift of vivid imagination and employed it freely in my reply, and coming to a cross-roads took my courage in both hands and slowly but firmly began to take my departure. I must admit, though, that my heart sank, as the very tone of their voice was full of suspicion, but five minutes' verbal manoeuvring was most successful, to my amazement.

'Look out for the Brigadier,' they called after me, 'because if he sees you, you will be put in prison. Good-night.' I cannot account for their eyes being so shut to my identity.

A little later, after knocking at a house in Valenciennes, in which city I lost my way hopelessly, the door opened slowly and a furious German face glowered at me. Apparently it was asking what the I wanted and in any case said ' You prisoner.' 'Oh, no!' I said, and in no way attempted to infringe further on the hospitality of that, or indeed any other house in Valenciennes. From the very beginning of my journey the Germans let me slip through their hands in a way that astonished me. True, I was never actually hidden by German soldiers in a train and taken across the frontier, as were some acquaintances of mine, but they never seemed to notice me, the gendarmes even leaving me quite unmolested to pursue my passportless way as I liked. The journey from Valenciennes to Quiévrechain and across Belgium was one of my life's pleasantest experiences. As I left the city in the early hours of the spring morning and began to get out on to the open road that winds between the fields, I heard the larks singing. The earth was full of young green things, and a feeling of peace came over me as I left behind a city of whose life I had caught a passing glimpse and which I could only look on as a reign of terror. I had talked to a good many French in Valenciennes as I passed through.

The weather was most considerate, being rainy when any police happened to be about, or likely to be about, and fine otherwise. I accomplished this journey by tram and boat, passing Charleroi, Mons, Namur and Liége. Did I lack food? Not a bit of it. I drifted almost invariably, as though led by an invisible arm, to those people who could most easily help me.

'You must have food,' said one family, and accept a few francs as they are sure to be useful. And I will pray the Virgin to protect you.' I showed them a little medallion blessed by the

Pope, given me in Italy, and, kissing it, we bade each other good-bye.

It is worth noting that all through my journey Belgian eyes were very wide open as to my real identity but German eyes curiously shut. From the tram conductors who stood me drinks, to the gentle-born, the Belgians all vied with one another in helping a soldier of the British Army to regain his liberty.

At Namur I walked down to the Quai, accosting a workman coming in my direction. On my saying that I was a stranger to the town and desired a lodging, he gave me a look full of intelligence a sort of 'I've-got-you' look-and sent me to the local hairdresser. (Let me observe here, that in adventures of this sort it is wise never to give yourself away by word. Let your man know who you are without telling him.) This workman handed me over to his old mother, who treated me right royally, and here again, as I soon realised, I had got into the hands of people who could be more useful than anyone else round. It appeared that a certain captain of a boat running between Namur and Liége was accustomed to come and be shaved there.

So they spoke to him about me, with the result that the following day I was safely hidden in a little room adjoining the engine room of his boat while up above the German officials were inspecting every man's passports! I in no way forced myself upon their notice, however.

At a certain village not far from Namur, I was obliged to change boats and, on boarding my new one, again accidentally fell into the hands of a true servant of the Flag. He observed me intently, and after a few preliminary words, warned me that it would be dangerous to remain on board between the coming two villages, but said that I must meet him on the Quai of two hours later and that he would be on deck and signal to me if the Passport Inspector were still on board or not.

I was at the appointed place and so was he. There being no danger I rejoined my new guide and arrived near Liége at dusk. Here he took me to the tram and, insisting on paying my fare, sat opposite between me and a German officer who might have observed me. On arrival at Liége he took me to a large café.

We dined and the proprietor produced a well-dressed and gentlemanly-looking youth who guided me to a house in a comfortable quarter where I was to be put up. Never shall I forget my night in that house. In the drawing-room a young girl painting quietly while her mother, and my host her father, talked. Not an indication that below the Huns were swarming like bees and that, if discovered, any moment my companions might be shot! It was impossible to believe that I was not free. Protected

in this manner, fed, clothed and guided by the Belgian people, I got within twenty yards of liberty, but here my luck ended.

The sentry on the canal, right up by the electric wires where I was going to swim to my freedom, was a man I at once realised would be worth knowing if only he had no rifle. I say worth knowing because his conduct was exemplary. It was midnight, and a misty haze hung about everything. I was on my stomach almost against the wires and could see him leaning up against a tree. He saw me at once. I watched him bend forward in my direction, scrutinising me intently, and I watched him bend back and resume his position against the tree. This was distinctly interesting. Here was a man who might, but did not shoot. What prevented him I do not know. A police dog on a barge had shown no such consideration and growled, hearing my movements. A faint noise came through the spring leaves, and like the eye of some monster the search-light swept the electric wires, lighting up every blade. I moved up a little Shall I risk it, I

further. The sentry again gazed at me. thought, and give him my boots? Prudence won, however. I did not attempt to bribe him, but after getting up to within twenty yards of freedom, crawled my way back past the police dog on the barge and was, alas! recaptured some kilometres away by a German officer. This officer handed me on to a Judge, the latter saying 'You will be sent to Germany, but I am sending you first to Liége. You are a prisoner and we are not any longer enemies, but I must do my duty to my country.' So ended my first attempt to get back to England.

My second judgment occurred after my jumping from the train on my way from Liége to camp, as I was being sent back to the camp I had originally escaped from. I was re-captured, on the Belgian Frontier this time, and escorted to the civil prison of a village not far from Maubeuge. The Judge, by his attitude, shed yet further light to me on German character.

'You are suspected of espionage,' he said. In answer I tried to persuade him to believe me when I said I was a British soldier. His answer was 'I would willingly believe you but I cannot.' He however consented to write to Liége for corroborative evidence of my assertions. Evidence having arrived some weeks later, he summoned me before his tribunal and told me--not that I was to be shot, but that he was glad to be able to tell me that what I had told him was true'! He excused his previous attitude toward me on the grounds that after all it had been rather a difficult case to deal with, as I was not only dressed in civilian clothes but spoke French and had no papers.

I asked him to accept my word of honour that I would make no further attempt to escape, but he replied 'My dear sir, you have escaped twice and I cannot accept your word.' It is worth noting that the British sense of honour seems to have no parallel in Germany, nor to be understood.

I therefore refrained from binding myself in any way. It is not to be expected that a nation that treats a matter of honour as a scrap of paper' will believe an Englishman's word of honour. This Judge on one occasion, namely, after my month of solitary confinement in a dark cell of the prison, sent for me, saying he was going to send me to a camp in Germany.' As a matter of fact I never was sent, and was instead left month after month to live or die, apparently they did not care how, in the verminous rooms of the prison; my imprisonment lasting from May 1 to November 1, the day of my third escape.

The Judge knew I was there, but on every occasion on which we encountered each other, threw up his hands, a little theatrically I thought, with the words 'I am amazed to see you still here. I sent your dossier to your battalion but '-after a pause -they have sent no soldier to fetch you.'

Whatever may have been the real reason of my detention for six months in a prison amongst French civilians, five nights of which were in a cellar and twenty-three or so in a semi-dark cell alone, he was perfectly conscious that I was there and was living on rations that were not supplemented by parcels from home. His attitude indicated that curious kindliness often noticeable in German character, and yet so completely neutralised by an indifference and apathy to that duty which the civilised world recognises as due in honour to a prisoner of war. This apathy is perhaps one of the most serious deficiencies in German character. I did not usually find them actively brutal. The evil they did was in what they left undone.

The German non-commissioned officer over me in the prison presented quite another aspect, however, of his country's character. Unlike the Judge, who was humane but who did not carry his good intentions through, the sergeant-major was frankly brutal. He beat prisoners repeatedly, and his look was more actively evil, more full of hate, than anything I have ever seen. He would beat old men of sixty in his study-in an adjoining house —until their cries for mercy came up to the ears of those in the prison next door. But I see more hope, strange as it may appear, for him than for the Judge. For becoming sorry for having been brutal, in any case as regards myself, he at once set himself to undo the mischief he had done, and became almost another man. There is more hope for a man who is actively evil and afterwards sorry than for one who is lukewarm in the good he does. May not

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