And so the two of us lay and wondered at it all, until we heard the bells of some church far up the river strike the hour of seven.

“Look here, old man, we’re getting stiff again; we must push on to some place or other.”

Accordingly we walked northwards, hugging the river-bank, and after about an hour’s tramp we came to the outskirts of V——. Passing through that part of the town which lies on the east bank, we arrived at the great bridge. Over this we started to make our way, feeling that we should like to put the river between ourselves and the enemy. In the middle of the bridge we were halted and questioned by the Dutch guard. When we declared that we were two British officers just escaped from Germany, the Dutch N.C.O. looked rather doubtful. As he did not speak either German or French we had some difficulty in convincing him. Certainly our appearance was not very reassuring. My companion did not look so bad, though his clothes were badly torn, and he was covered with slime from head to heels; but his field-boots were field-boots, and should have commanded attention. As for myself, I was a horrible-looking sight; and, to make things worse, my socks were worn through, disclosing cut and bleeding feet.

After about ten minutes’ wait on the bridge one of the sentries was told off to take us to the Casern, or barrack-room; so we were conducted back to the east side of the bridge. Here we were told that the officer in charge was not up, but he would be immediately informed of our arrival. Within a minute or two the officer himself came to welcome us, and ushered us into his bedroom, where he was completing his toilet.

What a splendid welcome that Dutch officer gave us! With his own hands he took off my socks and washed my feet, smearing the sore cuts with some stuff which he seemed to have great faith in. Finding that my friend’s boots were too much for him, he called in a couple of his orderlies, who managed, after a great deal of pulling, to remove them from his swollen feet. Then the Dutch officer bustled about, ordering breakfast for us. What would we like? Eggs and bacon, of course! All the English liked that.

“Yes, my cook does them beautifully; you shall see.”

Then he made us take off our clothes and wash; clean shirts and vests were supplied from the officer’s wardrobe; and, finally, he rang up the military doctor, and informed him that he had a couple of bad cases. All the time he bustled about helping us here and there, and never seemed tired of informing us what fine fellows we were, to which of course we both agreed. When the breakfast arrived, he hovered around us like a hen with her chicks, but we were hardly able to eat anything. With great difficulty we managed to swallow an egg, more to please the good fellow than anything else.

Soon after breakfast the doctor arrived, and we were hustled off to the hospital in a cab. Here we were treated like princes. Nothing was too good for us. It was nice to be fussed over and taken care of, after being neglected so long, and we thoroughly appreciated their kindness. First we had a very hot bath. Oh the luxury of having a real bath once more! After the bath we went off to bed and slept the clock round. Another bath, heaps to eat, and more sleep! The doctor said we must stay until we felt strong enough to make the journey to Rotterdam. When was the next train, we asked. Oh, in a few hours. Well, we felt strong enough now for Rotterdam, and as soon as may be England, and then home.

And so that morning we left V—— and all the kind friends we had made, and journeyed to Rotterdam, accompanied by another Dutch officer, travelling in first-class Pullman carriages. On our arrival we were handed over to the British Consulate. Everybody there was kindness itself; arrangements were made for us to buy civilian clothes, and before very long we were completely fitted out.

From Rotterdam we were removed to The Hague (pending a British boat to take us to England), where the British Ambassador and his wife made us welcome at the Embassy. Here again nothing was too good for us, and we shall always remember the great kindness they showed us, which affected me deeply after our terrible experience.

And then the great day arrived when we actually set our feet in England once more!

But what would England be like? How had she stood the strain of nearly three years’ war, with an expenditure of nearly eight millions a day? That such a stupendous sum had been gathered from the resources of our Empire, without the fear of immediate bankruptcy, only filled us with a joyous pride for the race to which we belonged. But what of the toll of blood and bone? Was that as frightful as it had been represented to us? Not that we had been really influenced by The Continental Times, or any other paper which the German Government propagated amongst the allied prisoners of war, as part and parcel of their general system of persecution; for the German is a master of mental as well as physical agony. But these papers, which were our only source of regular news, had laid the foundation of a doubt, deep down within our hearts, that perhaps all was not quite so well with those at home; for when day followed day, and weeks grew into months, and months into years, and no appreciable advance had been made by the Entente, it would take a very hero of optimism, if not a fool, to remain absolutely free from the canker of doubt. In existing circumstances it was impossible to calculate how long we must continue to live as exiles, under these apalling conditions. We dare not look for the speedy return of peace, for an early peace would mean the cause of the Entente was lost, the triumph of wrong over right, which must surely be impossible; and so the prisoners made it their duty to laugh, and say “Oh! three or four years longer,” when asked surreptitiously by some German soldier or other as to how long the war would go on.

I wonder if the people at home ever realise that the prisoners in Germany number amongst their ranks some of the greatest heroes of this war. On the battlefield the heroes, or at least some of them, are recognised, and rewarded accordingly; but the exile is never known, though he fights against far more hopeless odds; for him there is no chance—all is at an end. Fine deeds are done in the heat of action, when the excitement of the moment gives the spur to many a noble act; but it takes a braver and more steadfast spirit to pass smiling and cheerful through the endless stunted and hopeless days of a prisoner’s life, to cheer up those of our comrades who have for the moment fallen into the slough of despondency, and to harass the German guards at every turn in the matter of attempted escape, since if the prisoners were peaceably quiescent the number of their guards would be reduced, thus freeing so many more men to go and fight against their brothers on the front. The more escapes, the more guards necessary to prevent them, the more electric lights or oil lamps to show up the designs of the escapers by night, the continual supply of coal and oil necessary to feed these lights, slowly but very surely help to drain the resources of the Boches. This can be more easily seen when it is realised that the combined allied prisoners in Germany run into millions.

There are those who might say that the amount of coal and other things used for the exterior lighting of camps could not be a serious item. Very true. But, however small, it all counts, and it is the only way that a prisoner can help to do his bit. If he tries to escape he is punished, sometimes very severely; but he accepts it as part of his lot, because he feels that the more men placed to guard him, the less men there will be to fill active positions. I have met many people in this country since my return who don’t believe—or more probably don’t want to believe—that the life of a prisoner is as bad as some of us make out. All I can say is, I wish they could try it for themselves. Let them put up with the pestilential insanitary filth and the nauseating stench of camps without any sort of drainage; the bitter cold of the long winter without adequate warmth; the daily slaving of cooking tinned food and washing up greasy plates in freezing water afterwards; the difficulty of cleansing underlinen without the necessary utensils to wash it in; the mental torment of being without any authentic information of the fortunes of war or of the fate of those dear to us, whilst the flag-posts with which every camp is fitted are periodically gaily beflagged with enormous military banners flaunting some great German victory which the Boche sentries seldom lose the opportunity of sarcastically pointing out! Lucky indeed is the town or village which boasts of a Kriegsgefangenen—prisoners’ camp! To be inspected on Sundays as curious and despicable animals behind a wire cage by the German populace, decked out in holiday attire for the occasion, who mock and gaze through field-glasses at one’s face or the legs of those wearing kilts, shouting lewd remarks as the animals march up and down their confined exercise-ground; to have one’s precious letters from home the subject of offensive remarks from German officers attached to the camp,—these are only a few of the more outstanding troubles that a prisoner must bear with a smiling face.

Had the Boche in the beginning started by treating his prisoners with the respect and honour which is their due according to The Hague Convention, it would still be the duty of every prisoner to make his escape, if possible; but then the offensive spirit would have ended, for a holder of the King’s Commission must carry out the spirit in which that commission is given—the path of duty, even unto death, in whatever circumstances that path may lie. But taking into consideration the unscrupulous character of the enemy, as shown by the treatment of his prisoners, it is the duty of each able-bodied officer and man to carry out the offensive spirit in every way possible. Some of the men have been magnificent, and have carried this spirit to the highest possible heroism.

But to return to our impressions as the train gradually bore us to London from the port at which we had disembarked from Holland. Everything seemed to be as of yore. The long rolling fields bounded by broad hedges, the picturesque farms nestling in hollows, with fat cattle grazing over every hill-top, the wonderful soothing green of the general landscapes, brought a heavy sigh of content to be back in it all again. Everything seemed as if we had just left it. On the platform we saw numbers of men of military age. Surely things must be going pretty well, or all these men would be in uniform, they would have been called up long ago; or were they still playing at conscription in the matter of exemptions? Perhaps all these were shirkers, who did not know of or did not care for the great need of the Motherland in her dire distress, who had pitted herself in her unreadiness, in the cause of honour and right, against the greatest military nation on earth, organised to the last man, and beyond that again.

Soon we arrived in London, to report ourselves immediately to the War Office. But London amazed and appalled us. She was so vast. Taxi-cabs, motor-buses, and pedestrians thronged the streets as never before, or so it seemed to us. We hesitated to cross the street, the traffic seemed so dangerous and formidable. We were hustled off the pavement by constant streams of people going this way and that, none of whose faces seemed to spell war. One saw practically no people in mourning, whilst in Germany one sees them everywhere. Men in uniform passed by in thousands. Tommies looking at the sights and standing in groups at the street corners—why, there must be enough men in uniform here to form an army! Surely, if we were in need, these fellows would all be out at the front. Things must be going very well, and we had heard nothing but a piece of colossal impertinence. And so we more or less found it to be.

Every hotel seemed crammed; it was impossible to get in anywhere. The theatres, too, were running at high pressure; one must book seats weeks beforehand. In fact, everything looked as if there was no war going on at all, and yet organisation relative to war was evident at every turn; and we began to feel a great relief. The Old Country was big enough to give her utmost to the war and yet carry on her life of business and gaiety at the same time. This was our proud but foolish idea when we first returned to London.

In conclusion, I would like to add that there is not a word in the whole of these experiences which can harm in any way whatsoever the prisoners still remaining in Germany. In the few descriptions of escapes, attempted escapes, or other instances contrary to enemy regulations which I have recorded, and in which others have participated, there is not a single one of them left in Germany. They are mostly in Holland or Switzerland, and a good many of them are actually at home here in England. I could have made my tale vastly more interesting and exciting if the war were at an end.

If I have given the reader an interesting half-hour, and have satisfied his or her curiosity as to the real conditions under which a prisoner of war labours in Germany, I shall feel that I have been justified in writing these experiences.

Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.