At last their preparations were complete. The alterations in the box had been made, the band of orderlies chosen, and the two diversion parties—the song-and-dance items, as they called themselves—detailed.
The night before the eventful day, Bretherton and Melford emptied the box and fitted in the false bottom. The upper part of the box was refilled with rubbish, and the surplus carefully hidden. Then they made a final overhaul of their kit—clothing, food, matches, compasses and maps—to make quite sure that nothing had been forgotten. The food, maps, and compasses were distributed between the pockets of the civilian clothes and the haversack that each was to carry. They went over their plan of operations for the hundredth time and rehearsed the signals that Bretherton was to give from the conning-tower; and then, satisfied that each knew his part and that the scheme was as perfect as was possible in the circumstances, they went to bed.
The following day seemed to Bretherton the longest he had ever spent. The scheme now seemed madness and foredoomed to failure. A dozen exigencies might arise and ruin it. Too much depended upon a favourable coincidence of circumstances over which they had no control. Such were his thoughts as he prowled restlessly about the camp, thoughts bred by excitement, suspense, and inaction. He would be steady enough, he knew, when the time came for action.
He had marked with four stones the exact position in which the box was to be placed—a task that had taken him more than an hour, since loitering near the wire was both dangerous and likely to arouse suspicion. But it was essential that the box should be placed aright. The reach of a man’s arm through a hole has very definite limits. Melford had got into the box at night, and they had ascertained the angle that would give the maximum of cover from the sentry and the greatest ease in cutting the wire. It had been impossible to rehearse the orderlies in their part, but a French officer had volunteered to disguise himself as an orderly and to superintend the placing of the box.
The kommandantur staff had a meal at midday, and advantage was taken of their absence to get Melford into the box. As soon as the scouts reported that the Germans had left the building, Melford put on his civilian clothes and haversack; the manhole in the box was opened, and he crawled inside. He would have seven hours to wait in his cramped quarters, but since the box stood in a long passage that led to the kommandantur it was thought to be too risky an undertaking to attempt to enter it when any Germans were in the building.
Melford was now safely in the box; and Bretherton resigned himself to wait until the next event, which was the carrying out of the box, was put into execution at four-thirty.
An orderly’s clothes had been smuggled into the French officer’s room’, and at a quarter to four he made the necessary changes in his clothing and appearance. Bretherton, prowling restlessly about the exercise-yard, saw the three chosen orderlies pass one by one and by separate doors into the building. Presently Deane, the officer who was to pass the signal that the coast was clear, appeared at one of the doors and lounged negligently against the door-post. Bretherton covertly surveyed the enclosure. With the exception of the sentries patrolling between the wire, no Germans were about. He gave the signal by whistling a few bars of “The Tarpaulin Jacket”—“And six stalwart lancers shall carry me, carry me.”
Deane slightly turned his head and tapped out his pipe against the door-post; and a few seconds later four orderlies carrying a large box of rubbish emerged from the doorway. They passed quite close to Bretherton as he sauntered about the yard, and the disguised French officer gave him a wink as he went by. To Bretherton’s anxious eyes they seemed to stagger more than should be necessary with a box of that size; but they passed safely across the exercise-ground and approached the wire. The sentry stopped when he saw them coming, and walked slowly along his beat towards them.
Bretherton watched him anxiously. But the French officer did his part to perfection. He edged his party round so that they came up to the wire at the correct angle, and he dumped the box with apparent carelessness; but it rested on the exact place marked out by Bretherton. Then the four turned and marched back across the yard. The sentry stood looking at the box for a minute or two, and then, to Bretherton’s relief, resumed his beat.
One more step in the scheme had been taken successfully; and once more he resigned himself to inactivity and an intolerable wait of two and a half hours before it would be time for him to take up his position in the conning-tower. After half an hour had elapsed, he smuggled his haversack over to the latrines and hid it there. Another hour went by, and he smuggled his civilian coat and cap to the same place. Three-quarters of an hour dragged by with incredible slowness, and then he walked over to the conning-tower.
Again he became a prey to anxiety. It was the kommandantur staff that worried him now. If they delayed the time of their departure even by a few minutes, Melford might not have time to cut the wire; for it had been decided not to cut the wire till after they had passed. It would take him less than five minutes, he had said, but the time for the whole operation of escaping had been cut very fine. The kommandantur staff did not leave till a quarter to seven, and the new guard and extra sentries came on duty at seven. Allowing five minutes for cutting the wire, only ten minutes remained for the actual escape. A slight hold-up might be disastrous.
Bretherton had synchronized his watch with the camp clock, and as the time approached a quarter to seven, he kept his eyes fixed on the door through which the kommandantur staff would appear. They never were late—they were going off duty; but this night of all nights they must not be late. If for any reason Bretherton thought that the wire should be cut earlier, he was to whistle “Coming thro’ the Rye.” In any case he was to give the signal as soon as the kommandantur staff was clear of the camp.
The hands of his watch pointed to a quarter to seven, and then to fourteen minutes to seven; but the kommandantur staff did not appear. He decided to give them one minute more. And then at last they appeared in the doorway just as his lips shaped themselves for the signal. At the same moment the lights around the camp were turned on. The Germans seemed to crawl across the exercise-ground. They reached the gate and stood within a yard or two of the box while the sentry fumbled with the lock. The gate swung open, and they passed through. The sentry closed and locked it behind them. They reached the outer gate; the sentry unlocked it; they passed through, but halted outside and stood talking to the sentry. It was now eleven minutes to seven.
At last the kommandantur staff walked away, but the sentry stood at the gate looking after them. Seconds passed and then he turned, closed the gate, and—locked it.
Bretherton muttered a curse beneath his breath. He would have to use the crowbar after all. He was cool enough now. His time for action had come. The moment the sentry moved off on his beat between the fences he whistled “Coming thro’ the Rye” flung off his military tunic, and hurried into the civilian coat and haversack. He looked at his watch; eight minutes to seven. The light was failing rapidly. In another ten minutes it would be quite dark.
He made a rapid calculation. The new guard and extra sentries paraded outside the guard-hut at seven. They first relieved the sentry at the main gate, and then the sentry on that side of the camp. Then they marched round outside the wire to the side gate through which he must escape. All this took time. Nearly ten minutes must elapse from the time the guard paraded to the moment when they turned the corner of the camp and came into view of the side gate. The minutes of gathering darkness were precious; he would need all the concealment he could get during the time that he must stand up and wrench off the padlock. He determined to wait till seven when the guard paraded. He would be able to hear the sergeant’s voice calling out the guard should they parade a minute or two earlier.
In the distance he could see the dim figure of the officer who for greater certainty was to pass on his signal to the song-and-dance party. It was now five minutes to seven, and if all had gone well, Melford had cut the wire. The minutes dragged slowly by. Daylight was almost gone.
At one minute to seven he heard the sergeant’s voice from the guard-house on the other side of the camp. He took a long breath and whistled “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Across the exercise-ground someone began whistling, the same tune, and a moment later an uproar broke out in a far corner. The sentry, who was marching towards the side gate, paused at the noise, and after a momentary hesitation, turned and walked slowly towards it. Faint sounds of a distant argument came from the other direction.
It was now or never. Bretherton sped swiftly and silently from the latrines to the nearest tree, and from the tree to the box. He crouched behind it and rapped sharply upon the side. The manhole opened.
“The wire’s cut, but you will have to part the strands,” whispered Melford.
“The gate is locked,” Bretherton told him. “Wait till I’ve opened it. No need for both to be shot at.”
He threw one glance at the retreating back of the sentry, parted the strands of wire, and crawled through. A loose end caught in his haversack, but Melford released him. Bent double, he crossed the space between the two fences, stood holdly upright, inserted the crowbar in the staple, and heaved. The staple creaked but did not give. He was nearly midway between two light standards, and he was startlingly visible standing upright against the gate. Each moment he expected to hear the crack of a rifle and feel the brutal kick of a bullet in his body.
He pushed the crowbar farther through the staple and flung all his weight upon the lever. It moved. The staple flew from the post; the crowbar clanked to the ground. He glanced behind and saw that Melford was already through the wire. Then he pushed open the gate and ran for the shelter of the trees. He saw his elongated shadow dancing and sprawling ahead of him, the trees green and sharp-cut like theatrical scenery in the glare of the arcs. And then he lay panting among the undergrowth with Melford beside him.
“First lap,” murmured Melford. They rose and ran without speaking deeper and deeper into the woods.
Bent double, he crossed the space between.
There were no sounds of pursuit behind them, and when they had gone four or five hundred yards, they took a compass bearing and marched north-north-west. A mile farther on they turned due west, thus passing round to the north of the camp and village. At the end of an hour they came to the edge of the woods. They halted within the shelter of the trees and held a council of war. Below them was the road which they had intended to follow. The veteran escapers had advised them to follow roads. After ten o’clock at night few or no walkers abroad would be met, and the slight additional risk one incurred in this way was more than compensated for by the increased pace and comfort of marching and immunity from having to make long detours to avoid impassable ground.
Their original plan had been to halt on the edge of the woods and continue the march along the roads after ten o’clock. Had the outer gate been unlocked, the Germans would not have discovered their escape till the morning appel, since arrangements had been made to fake the eight-thirty appel. This would not have been difficult, as a great deal of ragging always went on, and the Germans often had to count the prisoners three or four times, usually with a different total each time. But now that the padlock was wrenched off the gate, the new guard could hardly fail to draw the obvious conclusion, even though Melford had closed the box before leaving and had had the presence of mind to remove the tell-tale crowbar. Surrounding villages would be warned, and cyclists would be sent out to look for them. The road, therefore, was unsafe. Nor could they halt on the edge of the woods as they had originally intended.
On the hillside beyond the road the woods began again and extended for some miles beside it. They decided to cross to the woods opposite and move through them parallel with the road until they deemed it safe to venture on to the road itself.
It was a moonless night, but the sky was studded with stars. They crouched in the ditch beside the road while three men walked by, and then ran across it, ascended the opposite slope, and gained the shelter of the woods in safety. It was difficult going in the woods. The undergrowth was thick, and they made slow progress; but several times they heard voices below them, and were consoled by the thought that though their progress was slower and more laborious than it would have been on the road, it was sure.
About midnight they reached the end of the woods. The moon had now risen, and they saw a village lying below them in a little valley and the road running through it. Hop-gardens surrounded the village and appeared to extend for some distance on both sides of the road. These would be difficult to move through, and Melford was for going straight down to the road. Bretherton, however, thought that they were still too close to Ebenthal to make road tramping safe, and since another of the old escapers’ maxims had been “of two counsels always choose the more cautious,” his advice was followed. They sat down under a bush, and with a coat over his head, Bretherton struck a match and examined the map. Beyond the village the road curved steadily for several miles, swinging round gradually almost to south-west, so that by marching west-south-west across country, one should reach the road again and shorten the march by two or three miles. This they decided to do.
They took a compass bearing and then marched by the stars. Almost immediately they became entangled in hop-gardens. Every ten minutes or so they came to a house which entailed a detour, and when, as happened on two or three occasions, they came upon one suddenly dogs began to bark and kept up their clamour long after the wayfarers had passed. Fortunately all the dogs were tied up, and in only one place was a window opened and a head thrust out. But this part of the march was very nerve-racking, and Melford swore mighty oaths against the whole canine tribe.
They reached the road at last, though their short cut had proved expensive in the matter both of speed and of fatigue. Now, however, they were able to step out. They made a detour of the first village, but this led them through a muddy swamp and took so long that they determined to march boldly through the next one. This they did and met no one, though lights were burning in one or two cottages and the dogs kept up a chorus of barking long after they had passed. They met only two parties on the road: an old man who called “Good night” and to whom Bretherton replied, and three youths who passed without speaking.
Just before dawn they found a suitable place to lie up in, a wood upon the side of a hill with a stream below. The undergrowth was thick, there was water close at hand, and there were no neighbouring villages from which lovers or sportsmen might wander and discover them. They sat on the margin of the wood and ate their ration of meat tablets and chocolate; and then Melford slept for an hour whilst Bretherton kept watch. At eight o’clock when the sun was up they returned to their hiding-place among the undergrowth, and Bretherton slept whilst Melford kept guard. The day passed uneventfully. They slept by turns all the morning and some of the afternoon. Occasionally they went to the edge of the wood and sunned themselves, for they found it tiring lying hour after hour among the undergrowth, and it was with difficulty that they restrained themselves from wandering about. But no one came near them. For some hours a shepherd sat upon the opposite hillside watching his sheep grazing upon the slopes; and once a girl driving a cow passed along the side of the wood.
They made another meal soon after dusk, and at ten o’clock the march was resumed. Their objective was the Rhine, where, they had been told, Dutch bargees could be found who, for a consideration, would smuggle one across the frontier.
On the fifth night they reached the little River Sieg, which flows into the Rhine near Bonn. They were now less than fifty miles from the great river, in hilly, thickly wooded country, and had but to follow the road and stream which meandered side by side between the hills. For two nights it had rained hard, and although drenched to the skin, they had no alternative during the day except to lie up in the dripping woods in their sodden clothes. On the fourth day the rain stopped, and they were fortunate in finding an open glade among the woods. There by turns they risked taking off their clothes and drying them in the sun.
They had grown accustomed to the dogs, and now they marched boldly through the villages to a chorus of barking. The night marches had become second nature to them. As they tramped hour after hour through the darkness, they seemed to have become part of the night like the trees and the unseen creatures that made bustling little noises in the darkness near them. Their feet fell rhythmically upon the pale ribbon of road that led between dark, forest-clothed slopes, through sleeping villages, across streams and rivers, among fields, and over windy open spaces. On they tramped like men condemned to march through darkness to the end of time; and often as they marched they sang German songs that Bretherton knew and even English airs, for there was little risk of anyone hearing them.
Food was running short, and they had cut down their already inadequate ration. They had hoped to find food as they went along, turnips or potatoes, and they had found a few; but a diet of raw potatoes is neither very appetising nor very sustaining to men with healthy appetites, leading a strenuous life in the open air and subjected to all the rigours of cold, wet, and fatigue.
Sunday morning found them in the neighbourhood of Eitorf; and soon after dawn they halted among the woods which extend for many miles around the village. They ate a portion of their now almost exhausted rations and some raw potatoes they had dug up in the course of the night’s march, and then they slept by turns.
During the afternoon they heard the sound of guns in the woods and the barking of dogs; and remembering that many escapers had been recaptured through falling in with Sunday sportsmen, they were a little uneasy. But they could only lie still and trust that the shooting parties would not wander in their direction; to attempt to change their position might attract the attention of the dogs. The afternoon dragged away slowly, and now that they were approaching the end of their journey on foot, they were very impatient of this enforced inactivity. They were less than fifteen miles from the Rhine, which they hoped to reach in the course of that night’s march.
Late in the afternoon they heard the sound of a gun close at hand; whereupon they hurriedly packed their haversacks and lay ready to crawl away at the first alarm. But they heard no more shots fired, and they were congratulating themselves on the fact that the sportsmen must have moved off to another part of the woods, when suddenly they heard a rustling behind them and turned their heads to see a large dog regarding them from the shelter of the undergrowth. Neither moved, and dog and men regarded each other silently. Seconds sped by, but the dog did not trot off as they had hoped it would do. They attempted to crawl away, but at the first movement the dog set up such a barking as to make them hurriedly desist. They threw sticks at the animal; they enticed it with morsels of their precious food; but the brute refused to be either bullied or cajoled. And then they heard a trampling in the undergrowth near by and saw between the trees two men carrying sporting guns. Bretherton whispered to Melford to pretend to be asleep.
The Germans walked slowly to the two tramps lying on the ground, and halted. Bretherton sat up with his hands clasped around his knees and murmured “Good day.” The Germans returned the salutation, and one, who by his manner and bearing seemed to be a person of some importance, asked what he was doing here. Bretherton answered that he and his companion were from Cassel on a walking tour. The German listened to the story and then asked somewhat peremptorily to see their pass. Bretherton produced the pass; and while the German was examining it, two more sportsmen arrived with another dog. The German handed back the pass and said, with rather more civility, that it would be necessary for Bretherton and his companion to accompany him to Eitorf to report to the authorities there.
Bretherton saw that he had gained a point by the pass, but he had no wish to go to the village and be questioned by some conscientious German official who might possibly telegraph to Cassel to verify the story. He replied that he had every intention of going down to the village, since that was where he intended to stop the night, but he was very comfortable where he was and intended to remain there for the present.
The German said that he must insist. “Insist!” echoed Bretherton. “I have as much right to be in these woods as you have. I have proved to you who I am, and I have told you that I am spending the night in Eitorf. Am I then to trot backwards and forwards on this hot afternoon just to please every stranger that comes along?” And he lay back and closed his eyes to show that the matter was settled.
The German was obviously uncertain what to do, and he drew aside to confer with his companions. Bretherton strained his ears to catch what they were saying, and he gathered that one of them intended to go down to the village and bring back an official. And presently one of them went off, followed by one of the dogs. The remaining three sat down a few yards away, and the dog lay down beside them.
Bretherton pretended to doze. He lay close beside Melford with his hat tilted over his eyes, and they held a whispered consultation. It would be nearly two hours, they estimated, before the man could return from the village. By then it would be within an hour of dusk, a point of some importance. For an hour they would pretend to sleep, and then they would try the plan they had concocted. Melford was to get up and stroll off as if to fill his water-bottle at the stream which was hidden in the undergrowth some fifty yards away; and to make this appear the more reasonable he was to leave his hat, coat, and haversack behind. These would have to be abandoned. Meanwhile Bretherton was to pretend to doze and so support the pretence that Melford was only going to the stream. The Germans would thus be compelled either to shoot at Melford—which it was very unlikely they would dare to do—or divide their forces. Then Melford and Bretherton were to make a dash for it independently and meet after dark outside Meteren, the next village.
Melford managed to transfer his small stock of food from his haversack to his pockets without being observed by the Germans. His maps and compasses were in an inner pocket. Then they both pretended to doze and lay listening to the murmur of the Germans’ conversation and watching the minute-hand creep round towards the hour chosen for the attempt.
At last it was time. Bretherton whispered, “Good luck,” and Melford turned over sleepily, yawned, stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes. The Germans watched him silently. He picked up his water-bottle and applied it to his lips. Then he shook it, turned it upside-down, and eyed with disgust the few drops that trickled from it. He mumbled something unintelligible and with a sigh rose to his feet. The Germans, who had been lying back watching, sat up quickly. With one hand in his trouser pocket and the other carelessly swinging the water-bottle he sauntered towards the stream. The Germans called on him to stop, but he took no notice of them. The three men scrambled to their feet and again called on him to stop. One of them raised his gun; but another laid his hand upon the barrel. Melford continued unconcernedly upon his way. Bretherton rolled over sleepily and called testily, “All right: he’s only going to fill the water-bottle.”
Melford’s kit that lay upon the grass and Bretherton’s lazy attitude reassured the Germans, for after a hurried consultation one of them picked up his gun and followed Melford. The remaining two sat down again, and the dog remained with them.
These were big odds against Bretherton, two men armed with sporting guns and a dog. But he feared the dog more than the guns. Fortunately he had cut himself a stout stick in the woods, and as he lay now upon his side with the stick hidden by his body, he found the grip of it comforting. His food, map, and compass were in his pockets. He would have to sacrifice his overcoat and haversack, but with luck he would reach the Rhine that night. He watched the Germans through half closed lids, awaiting an opportunity to bolt and listening for the sounds that would tell him that Melford had got away.
Suddenly a shout broke the stillness of the woods. The two men sat up quickly; the dog barked. The shout was repeated a few minutes later, farther off, and was followed by a shot. The two Germans sprang to their feet and stood looking in the direction from which the shot had sounded. The dog started off into the woods, but was angrily recalled by one of the men and stood behind its masters gazing into the undergrowth with cocked ears.
Bretherton cautiously drew in his legs. He rose swiftly and noiselessly to his feet; he took a stealthy step forward. The men heard nothing, but the dog did and turned its head. Bretherton brought the stick down upon the animal’s skull with all his strength, and as it crumbled beneath the blow, he turned and dived into the undergrowth.