Dogs were barking in the village of Twiehausen, but the surrounding fields were too thick with mud to allow Gray, Kennard, and Blain to circumvent the hamlet. Rain poured from the sky. They thought they wouldn’t have any trouble passing unnoticed through the single lane of cottages in the middle of the night, but with every step they took, another dog howled in one of the cottages. They would have a better chance tiptoeing through a kennel with steaks around their necks. A few cottage doors opened, and villagers peered out to see what was causing the ruckus.
Earlier in their journey, they might have hurried ahead—or not risked going through the hamlet in the first place. But after more than a week without proper rest, hiking miles every day, sleeping outdoors, eating half rations, and wearing damp clothes, they were cavalier. At last, they cleared the village, the cacophony from the dogs fading into the distance. Nobody had stopped them that time, but the three knew well that it only took a single mistake—the misreading of a sign, a careless hiding spot, an inquisitive passerby—and all would be lost.
The next night, they trudged through the swamp that encircled much of Dümmer Lake, bedeviled by mosquitoes. By the time they reached dry land, they were covered in bites. It was almost dawn, on August 1, but they continued until they had gone around the town of Damme. Every one of their 11 miles hurt. At last they hid in some woods to rest, the afternoon sun blazing overhead. They barely grunted in conversation they were so hungry and tired. During their almost two years of captivity, they had all lost weight, but after the past eight days of strain, half rations, and limited water, they were like skeletons. Their clothes hung loose on their frames, their eyes stared listlessly, and they were all suffering from colds. Blain’s cheeks were sunken; he looked twice his age.
After dusk, they pushed through their exhaustion and marched down the road to Vehs. Due south of their route was Osnabrück, where they had first banded together to escape. It felt like a lifetime ago. They covered 16 miles that night, but in their ambition stopped too late to find anywhere other than a narrow thicket of trees in which to hide. By their map, Gray determined that they were roughly 45 miles from Sellingen, the Dutch border town, and that they should make their cross to freedom in four nights. They had rations enough for only two. Determination would need to cover the rest.
The next 24 hours followed much the same. Sleep, then a long, slow trudge, one foot after another.
In the late hours of Saturday, August 3, near the hamlet of Wieste, the road took a sharp turn away from their steady northwestward course. They left its easy track for a tramp through a deep marsh, their boots sticking in the mud. The only sounds in the night were their grunts of exertion and the sucking sound of the mud taking hold of each step. They did not have the energy to speak.
Over a dozen miles after they began, they collapsed in some woods yet again before daybreak. They slept soundly. Then, once dusk settled over the countryside, they began yet another trek. They passed through cultivated farmland from time to time, but their efforts to forage from the fields yielded nothing. The best nourishment they found was some rotten turnips that turned the stomach and raw potatoes that were better for cracking teeth than eating. Before morning, they intended to cross a point where the Ems River and canal met. That swim alone was enough to occupy their fears.
Southwest of Blenheim, perched high in the branches of a tree, Jim Bennett watched German soldiers go in and out of a camp just 300 yards away. It was one thing to see the Dutch border on the map, quite another to see its exact location and surroundings and to determine the best place to cross. Armed sentries patrolled the 350-mile border between Germany and the Netherlands, but there was no high wall, no single line of defense. In some places, there were manmade earthen embankments; in others, a canal or road separated the two countries. Sometimes electrified fences or barbwire divided woods and open fields, and there were also stretches where it was impossible to know what country you were in until you saw a guard or sentry post. In many senses, the border’s irregularity, often dictated by the terrain, was its own defense. The longer you spent looking for an undefended spot, the more likely you were to be caught by a roving patrol or a farmer who would be rewarded handsomely for your return.
Early that morning, Bennett and Campbell-Martin had taken cover in the tree’s dense foliage. By observing the movements of the frontier sentries, they had a good idea of where the border line lay. They figured their best opportunity was where it ran through some nearby woods. The day passed interminably. There was nothing for them to do but watch the guard and try to forget how thirsty and hungry they were. They had eaten the last scraps of their food, and, connoisseurs of puddle water, were desperate for something fresh to drink. Late in the day, a storm settled over them, turning the sky black. Rain beat down through the leaves, and the thunder cracked and boomed in every direction. It was fairly dark, and they might have set out early, but then the clouds broke and the sun shone brightly again, so they waited in their perch until the sun set and night stole completely over the countryside.
The two men then dropped down to the ground, fixed their compass for southwest, and started off across the moor. Thoughts coursed through Bennett’s head about what might prevent him reaching freedom—electrified fences, dogs, burly sentries—and he figured out how he would overcome each. Only a bullet would stop him setting foot in Holland before dawn the next day—and maybe not even that. When they reached the woods where they believed the border to be, they dropped to their hands and knees and continued at a crawl. The rain had done little to dampen the crackle of leaves and twigs. It seemed that the closer they got to where they thought the border was located, the more noise they made. A few minutes later, Bennett spotted the line of a barbwire fence. The border. One hundred yards away at the most.
A lone sentry stood between them and freedom. They straightened up and eased slowly forward through the trees, grabbing heavy branches and sticks in case it came to a struggle. As yet, they had not seen any dogs, nor had they heard barking. Then, all of a sudden, there was a rustle in the woods a short distance away. Bennett stopped cold, and Campbell-Martin drew up alongside him. For a long moment, the two waited. All was silent, but Bennett sensed someone in the darkness ahead—someone restless and on alert. He was sure of it. He advanced—there was no turning back now. He had only gone a few steps when he heard the distinct cocking of a rifle and the sound of its butt being brought quickly to its owner’s shoulder.
“Halt!” a German sentry ordered.
Bennett and Campbell-Martin knew what they had to do. They barely gave each other a look before they charged straight through the trees at the sentry, their sticks at the ready. Their sudden movement shocked the soldier, and he stood frozen as Bennett swept past, running so fast he did not have the time, nor the need, to use his stick. Campbell-Martin followed close behind. They found a break in the barbwire fence and raced through it. “Halt!” the sentry shouted again. The crack of a rifle echoed behind as they charged headlong into Holland. The first shot, and the next, missed. They ran and ran until they splashed into the Dinkel River in free Holland. On the opposite bank, they collapsed and shook hands. Together, both at the same time, they said, “We’ve made it!”