 CHAPTER XV The church was half in ruins. Great portions of the roof had been torn away by shell-fire, and there were gaping holes in the walls, through which could be caught glimpses of sentries, going backwards and forwards. Sometimes a grey battalion swung by. Sometimes a German officer peered in curiously, with a sneer on his lips. The drone of aircraft came from above, through the holes where the rafters showed black against the sky, ever the guns boomed savagely from beyond. There were no longer any seats in the church. They had all been broken up for campfires, even the yoke and pulpit had gone. The great empty space had been roughly cleared of fallen masonry, which had been flung in heaps against the wall. On the stone floor filthy straw was thinly spread. On the straw lay row upon row of wounded men, very quiet for the most part. They had found that it did not pay to make noise enough to annoy the guards, who smoked and played cards in the corner. The long day, how long only the men on the straw knew, was drawn to a close. The sun sank behind the western window, which the guns had spared, and the stained glass turned to a glory of scarlet and gold and blue. The shafts of color lay across the broken altar, whence everything had been stripped. They bathed the shattered walls in a beauty that was like a cloak over the nakedness of their ruin. Slowly they grabbed over the floor, as the sun sank lower, touching the straw with rosy fingers, falling gently on broken bodies and pain-drawn faces. And weary eyes looked gratefully up to the window, where a figure of Christ with a child in his arms stood glorious in the light, and blessed him with the infinite pity of his smile. A little cockney lad with a dirty bandage round his head, who had tossed him pain all day on the chancellest steps, turned to the window to grade the daily miracle of the sunset. Worth waiting for, all the day, that is, he muttered. The restlessness left him, and his eyes closed, presently, in sleep. Slowly the glory died away, and as it passed a little figure in a rusty black cassock came in, making his way among the men on the straw. It was a French priest who had refused to leave his broken church. A little fat man, not in the least like a hero, but with as nightly a soul as was ever found in armour, and with lance in rest. He passed from men to men, speaking in quaint English, occasionally dropping gladly into French, when he found someone able to answer him in his own language. He had nothing to give them but water, but that he carried tirelessly many times a day. His little store of bandages and ointments had gone long ago, but he bathed wounds, helped cramped men to change their position, and did the best he could to make the evil straw into the semblance of a comfortable bed. To the helpless men on the floor of the church, his coming meant something akin to paradise. He paused near a little Irish man with a broken leg, a man of the Dublin Fossiliers, whose pain had not been able to destroy his good temper. How are you, tonight, mon garçon? – You're not too bad, father, said the Irish man. If I could have just a taste of water, now? He drank deeply as the priest lifted his head and sank back with a word of thanks. This feather pillow of mine is apt to slip if I don't watch it, he said, wriggling the back of his head against the cold stone of the floor, from which the straw had worked away. – I don't know, could you gather it up a bit, father? – he groaned. I'd asked you to put me boots under me for a pillow, but if them thieving guards found them loose, they'd sweep them from me. – Sh! – my son, the priest whispered warningly. He shook up a handful of straw, and made it as firm as he could under the man's head. It is not prudent to speak so loud. Remember you cannot see who may be behind you. – Indeed, and I cannot, returned Denny Callaghan. – I'll remember, father, that's great, he said at his head thankfully on the straw pillow. – I'll sleep easier, tonight, for that. – And, monsieur le capitain, as he moved yet, the priest glanced at a motionless form near them. – Well, indeed he did, father, this afternoon. He gave a turn, and he said something like, tired people. I thought there was great sense in that, if he was talking to us, so I was cheered up about him, but not a word have I got out of him since, but it's something that he spoke at all. – The curée bent over the quiet figure. Two dark eyes opened, as if with difficulty, and met his. – Nora, said Jim Linton, are you there, Nora? – I am a friend, my son, said the curée, are you in pain? – The dark eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly. – Many murmured, water. – It is here, the little priest held the heavy head, and Jim managed to drink a little, something like a shadow of a smile came into his eyes, as the priest wiped his lips. Then they closed again. – If they would send as a doctor, mothered the curée, in his own language longingly. – Mâgeois, what a land! – He looked down in admiration at the splendid helpless body. – He won't die, father, will he? – I do not know, my son, I can fight no wound except the one on his head, nothing seems broken, perhaps he will be better tomorrow. – He gave the little Irish man his blessing, and moved away. – There are many eager eyes awaiting him. Jim was restless during the night. Denny Callaghan, himself, unable to sleep, watched him muttering and trying to turn, but unable to move. – I doubt but his back's broken, said the little man ruefully. – Cure, what a pity! – He tried to soothe the boy with kind words, and towards the dawn Jim slept heavily. He awoke when the sun was shining upon him to a rift in the wall. The church was full of smothered sounds, stifled groans from helpless men, stiffened by lying still and trying to move. Jim managed to raise himself a little, at which Denny Callaghan gave an exclamation of relief. – Hello, are you better, sir? – Where am I? Jim asked, thickly. – Isn't a church you are, sir? – There's not much like it, said the little man. The Germans call it a hospital. – There's all I wish they may have to like themselves as they wound it. – Are you better, sir? – I think I'm all right, Jim said. He was trying to regain his gathered faculties. So they've got me. He tries to look at Callaghan. – What's your regiment? – It's a dubs, sir. – It's hard luck. I came back wounded from Souffle Bay, and they sent me out to the battalion here. I'd not been with them a week before I got landed again. Now there's a German prison ahead, and by all one here's there not rest camps. – No, sir Jim. He tried to move, but failed, sinking back with a stifled groan. I wish I knew if I was damaged much. – Are there any doctors here? – There was two, a while back. They fixed us up somehow, and we haven't seen a hair of them since. The guards throw rations of a sort at us twice a day. – Does badly off we'd be if it weren't for the priest. – Is he French? – He is, and a saint, if there ever was one. There he comes now. – The Malahan crossed himself reverently. A hush had come over the church. The cura and his vestments had entered, going slowly to the altar. Jim struggled up on his elbow. There was perfect silence in the church. Men who had been talking seized suddenly. Men who moaned in their pain bit back their cries. So they lay while the little priest celebrated mass. As he had done every morning since the Germans swept over his village, at first alone and since the first few days to a silent congregation of helpless men. They were of all creeds and some of no creed at all, but they prayed after him as men learned to pray when they are at grips with things too big for them. He blessed them at the end with uplifted hand, and dim eyes followed him as he went slowly from the church. He was back among them presently, in the rusty black cassock. The guards had brought in the men's breakfast, great cans of soup and loaves of hard, dark bread. They put them down near the door, tramping out with complete disregard to the helpless prisoners. The priests would say to them, aided by the few prisoners who could move about, wounded though they were. In any case, the guard had no order to feed prisoners. They were not nursemaids, they said. Ah, my son, you are awake! Jim smiled up at the curate. Have I been asleep long, sir? Three days they brought you in last Friday night. Do you not remember? No, said Jim. I don't remember coming here. He drank some soup eagerly, but took his head at the horrible bread. The food cleared his head, and when the little curate had gone away, promising to return as soon as possible, he lay quietly, pacing matters together in his mind. Callahan helped him. The Dublin's had been in a line next to his own regiment when they had gone over the top on that last morning. Oh, I remember all that well enough, Jim said. We took two lines of trench, and then they came at us like a wall. The ground was graying with them, and I was up on a smashed traverse, trying to keep the men together when it went up too. A shell, was it? Jim shook his head. A shell did burst near us, but it wasn't that. No, the trench was mined, and the mine went off a shade too late. They delayed somehow. It should have gone off if we took the trench before they came to a tact. As it was, it must have killed as many of their men as ours. They told me about it afterwards. Afterwards, said Callahan curiously. He looked at Jim a little doubtful as to whether he really knew what he was talking about. Did you not come straight here, then, sir? I did not. I was buried, said Jim grimly. The old mine went up right under me, and I went up too. I came down with what seemed like tons of earth on top of me. I was covered right in, I tell you. Only, I managed to get some of the earth away in front of my nose and mouth. I was lying on my side near the edge of a big heap of dirt, with my hands near my face. If I had been six inches further back, there wouldn't have been a ghost of a chance for me. I got some of the earth and mud away and found I could breathe, just as I was choking. But I was buried for all that. All our chaps were fighting on top of me. Did you tell me, gasped Callahan incredulously. I could feel the boots, Jim said. I am bruised with them yet. What time did we go over that morning? Nine o'clock, wasn't it? It was, sir. Well, it was twelve or one o'clock when they dug me out. They retook the trench and started to dig themselves in, and they found me. I was paint-cut on my hand. My aunt, that was a long three hours. Did they treat you decent, sir? They weren't too bad, Jim said. I couldn't move. I suppose it was the weight on me and the bruising. At least I hope so. They felt me all over. There was a rather decent lieutenant there, who gave me some brandy. He told me he didn't think there was anything broken, but I couldn't stir, and it hurt like fury when they touched me. How long were you there, sir? They had to keep me until night. There was no way of sending back prisoners, so I lay on a mud heap, and the officer boy talked to me. He had been to school in England. That's where they learned the many decency he had, said Callahan. It might be, but he wasn't a bad sort. He looked after me well enough. Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher-party over with me. The German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, and said he was afraid he wouldn't see me again, as we were pretty sure to be shelled by the British. Then were you, sir? Rather, the first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through the sleeve of my coat. I looked for the hole this morning to see if I was remembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is. He held up his arm and showed a jacked tear in his tunic. But that's where I stopped remembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something else then. Why is my head tied up? It was all right when he began to carry me over. You have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head, sir, said Callahan, and a nasty little cut near your temple. Hmm, said Jim. I wondered why it ached. Well, I must have got those from our side on the way across. I hope they got a bush or two as well. I don't know, Callahan said. The fellas that dumped you down said something in their own, hatin' tongue. I didn't understand it, but it sounded as if they were glad to be rid of you. Well, I wouldn't blame them, Jim said, for not exactly a feather-weight, and it can't be much fun to be killed carrying the enemy about, whether you're a botch or not. He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did he know at home yet he wondered anxiously, and then he suddenly realized that his fall must have looked like certain death, that if they had heard anything it would be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought. What had they heard, his father, Nora, and Wally, what did he think? Was Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. Wally turned on that thought to Callahan. He still didn't move, bringing a stifled cry to his lips. Did they? Are there any other officers of my regiment here? There are not, said Callahan. I got the priests to look at your badge, sir, the way you could find out if there was any more of ye. But there is not. Them that's here is mostly doblins and monsters, with a sprinkling of Canadians. There's not an officer or man of the blanks here at all, barring yourself. Will the Germans let us communicate with our people? Communicate, is it, said the Irishman, here, till not let anyone sense so much as a scratch on a postcard. He dropped his voice. Wish now, sir, the priests taking all our addresses, and he'll do his best to send word to every one at home. But can he depend on getting through? Faith, he cannot, but it's the only chance we've got, the poor man's not but a prisoner himself. He's watched if he goes tin yours from the church. So I don't know, at all, will he ever manage it, with the suspicions they have of him? Jim sighed impatiently. He could do nothing then, nothing to keep the blow from falling on the two dear ones at home. He thought of trying to bribe the German guards, and felt for his pocketbook, but it was gone. Some careful bush had managed to relief him of it, while he had been unconscious. And he was helpless, a log, while over in England nor had his father were, perhaps, already mourning him as dead. These thoughts travelled to Billabong, where Brownie and Murty a tool, and the others kept the home ready for them all, working with the love that makes nothing at all, and planning always for the great day that should bring them all back. He pictured the news arriving, saw Brownie's dismayed old face, and heard her cry of incredulous pain. And there was nothing he could do. It seemed unbelievable that such things could be in a sane world. But then the world was no longer sane. It had gone mad nearly two years before, and he was only one of the myriad atoms caught in the swirl of its madness. The Q. A. came again, presently, and saw his troubled face. You are in pain, my son. No, I'm all right if I keep quiet, Jim answered. But it's my people, Callaghan says you will try to let them know, father. I am learning you all, so depraised. Names, regiments, and numbers, is it not? I dare not put them on paper. I have been searched three times already, even to my shoes. But I hope that my chance will come before long. Then I will send him to your war-office. He beamed down on Jim so hopefully that it seemed rather likely that he would find the private telegraph office of his own, suddenly. Now I will learn your name and regiment. He repeated him several times, nodding his head. Yes, that is an easy one, he said. Some of them are very terrible to a Frenchman. Our friend here. He looked quaintly at Callaghan, as a name, which it twists the tongue to say. And now, my son, I would like to examine you, since you are conscious. I am the only doctor, a poor one, I fear. But perhaps we will find out together that there is nothing to be uneasy about. That indeed was what they did find out, after rather agonizing half-hour. Jim was quite unable to move his legs, being so bruised, there was scarcely a square inch of him that was not green and blue and purple. One hip bore the complete impress of a foot, livid and angry. Yes, that chap jumped on me from a good height, Jim said, when the Q-Ray exclaimed at it. I thought he had smashed my leg. He went near it, said the Q-Ray. Indeed, my son, you are beaten to a jelly. But that will recover itself. You can breathe without pain. That is well. Now we will look at the head. He unwrapped the bandages and felt a lump tenderly. Ah, that is better, a little concussion, I think. Mon brav! It is that which kept you so quiet when you stayed with us at first. And the cut heals well, that comes of being young and strong, with clean, healthy blood. He bathed the head and replaced the bandages, sighing that he had no clean ones. But with you it matters little, you will not need them in a few days. Then perhaps we will wash these, and they will be ready for the next bore-boy. He smiled at Jim. Remove those legs as much as you can, my son, and rope them. He trotted away. And that same is good advice at Callahan. It will hurt to move, sir, and you beaten to a pulp first and then stiffening for the three days you are after lying here. This all I wish I could rope you with a good bottle of elements to do it. But if them hunts move you, it will hurt a mighty lump more than if you move yourself. This is the boys for that. They think they've got a feather in their caps if they get an extra yelp out of anyone. So do the best you can, sir. I will, said Jim, and did his best, for long hours every day. It was weary work with each movement torture, and for a time very little encouragement came in the shape of improvement. Then slowly, with rubbing and exercised, the stiffened muscles began to relax. Callahan cheered him on, forgetting his own aching leg in his sympathy for the boy in his silent torment. In the intervals of physical jerks, Jim talked to his little neighbour, who's a light-new no-bounds when he heard that Jim knew and cared for his country. He himself was a quirk man, with a wife and two sons. Jim gathered that her equal was not to be found in any town in Ireland. Callahan occasionally lamented the foolishness that had kept him in the army, when he had a right to be home, looking after you and Larry. There's not much the army gives you, and you give it the best years of your life, he said. I'd be better out of it and home with me boys. Then you wouldn't let them go to war if they were old enough, Jim asked. If they were old enough to not be asking my liberty, they'd be, rejoined Mr. Callahan proudly. It is my sons that be stand out of a fight like this, he glared at Jim, laughed at the unconscious of any inconsistency in his remarks. And there's plenty of your fellow countrymen that won't go and fight Callie, said a man beyond him, a big Yorkshire man. There's that in all countries, said Callahan calmly. They didn't all go and you're a part of the country, did they, till they were made. Faith, I'm told there's a few there yet in odd corners, and likely to be till after the war. The man round roared joyfully at the expense of the Yorkshire man. It is not in Ireland we have that queer base of conscientious objector, went on Callahan, rolling the syllables lovingly on his tongue. That's an animal a man wouldn't like to meet now. Whatever our objectors are in Ireland, they're surely never conscientious. Jim gave a crack of laughter, they brought a roving grey eyes squarely upon him. Even in Australia, that's the captain's country, said a soft Irish voice. I've heard tell there's a boy or two there out of khaki, maybe they're holding back for his conscription too. But wherever the boys are that don't go, none of them have a song and dance made about them, barring only the Irish. What about your symphoners, someone sang out, Callahan's face fell. Here they have the country destroyed, he admitted, and nine out of every ten don't know anything about politics or anything else at all. Only they get talked over and told that they're patriots if they'll get hold of a gun and do a little drilling at night. And where's the country boy that wouldn't give his ears for a gun? And the English government, that could stop it all with the stroke of a pen, hasn't a plug to bring in conscription in Ireland. You're right there, Callie, said someone. I know well I'm right. But a thousand and tens of thousands of Irish boys that went to the war and fought till they died, they'll be forgotten, and this in vain scum will be remembered. If the government had the plug of a mouse, they'd be all right. I tell you boys, it will be the government's own fault if we see the heathen Turks parading the fair fields of Ireland, with our long tales held up by the symphoners. Callahan relapsed in the gloomy contemplation of this awful possibility, and refused to be drawn further. Even when Jim, desiring to be tactful, mentioned the famous Irish V.C., who had single-handed slain eight Germans, he declined to show any enthusiasm. Ah, what V.C., he said sarly. Sure, his old father wouldn't make a fuss of him. Why didn't he do more, says he. I often lay there twenty men myself with a stick, and I come from a chrome fair. It is a bad trial of Mick that he could kill only eight, and he, having a rifle and bayonet, he says, cock him up with a V.C. After which Jim ceased to be consoling, and began to exercise his worst leg, knowing well that the sight of his torments would speedily melt Danny's heart and make him forget the sorrows of Ireland. The guards did not trouble them much. They kept a strict watch, which was not difficult, as all the prisoners were partially disabled, and then considered their duty this charge for bringing twice a day the invariable meal of soup and bread. No one liked to speculate on what had gone to the making of the soup. It was a pale, greasy liquid, with strange lumps in it, and tasted as dishwater may be supposed to taste. Jim learned to eat the sour bread by soaking it in the soup. He had no inclination to eat, but he forced himself to swallow the disgusting meals, so that he might keep up his strength, just as he worked his stiff limbs and rubbed them most of the day. For there was but one idea in Jim Linton's mind. Escape. Gradually he became able to sit up, and then move a little, hobbling painfully on a stick, which had been part of a broken poo, and endeavouring to take part in looking after the helpless prisoners and in keeping the church clean, since the guards laughed at the idea of helping at either. Jim had seen something of the treatment given to wounded German soldiers in England, and he risked to think of them, tended as though they were our own sick, while British prisoners laying and starved in filthy holes. But the little curie rebuked him. But what would you, my son, there can I, without breathing, without decency, without hearts, are we to put ourselves on that level? I suppose not, but it's a big difference, father, Jim muttered. The bigger the difference, the more honour on our side, said the little priest. And things pass. Long after you and I and all these poor lads are forgotten, it will be remembered that we came out of this war with our heads up. But they, suddenly fierce scorn filled his quiet eyes. They will be the outcasts of the world. Wherefore, Jim worked on and tried to take comfort by the curie's philosophy, although there are many times when he found it hard to digest. It was all very well to be cheerful about the verdict of the future, but difficult to forget the insistent present with the heel of the hun on his neck. It was sometimes easier to be philosophic by dreaming of days when the positions should be reversed. He was able to walk a little when the order came to move. The guards became suddenly busy, officers whom the prisoners had not seen before came in and out, and one evening the helpless were put roughly in the farm-cards and taken to the station, while those able to move by themselves were marched after them. Marched quickly with bayonet points ready behind them to prod stragglers. It was nearly dark when they were thrust roughly into closed trucks, looking back for the last time on the little curie who had marched beside them with an arm for two sick men, and now stood on the platform, looking wistfully at them. He put up his hand solemnly. God keep you, my sons! A German soldier elbowed him roughly aside. The doors of the trucks were clashed together, leaving them in darkness, and presently, with straining and rattling and clanging, the train moved out of the station. Next stop, Germany, St. Eddie Callahan from the corner where he had been put down, and not a ticket between the lot of us. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Captain Jim This LibriVox recording is in a public domain. Captain Jim by Mary Grant Bruce Chapter 16 Through the Darkness I think that's the last load, Jim Linton said. He had wriggled backwards out of a black hole in the side of a black cupboard, and now sat back on his heels, gasping. His only article of attire was a pair of short trousers. From his hair to his heels he was caked with dirt. Well, praise the pigs for that, said a voice from the blackness of the cupboard. Someone switched on a tiny electric light. Then it could be seen, dimly, that the cupboard was just large enough to hold four men, crouching so closely that they almost touched each other. All were dressed, or undressed, as Jim was. All were equally dirty. Their blackened faces were set and grim, and whether they spoke, or moved, or merely sat still, they were listening, listening. All four were British officers. Marsh and Fullerton were subalterns belonging to a cavalry regiment. Desmond was a captain, a Dublin fuselier, and Jim Linton completed the quartet, and they sat in a hole in the ground under the floor of an officer's barrack in a West Valium prison-camp. The yawning opening in front of them represented five months ceaseless work, night after night. It was the mouth of a tunnel. I dreamt to-day that we crawled in, Marsh said in a whisper. They had all learned to hear the faintest murmur of speech. And we crawled and crawled and crawled for years, it seemed, and then we saw daylight ahead, and we crawled out, in Piccadilly Circus. That was some tunnel, even in a dream, Desmond said. I feel as if it were some tunnel now, remarked Jim, still breathing heavily. Yes, you've had a long spell, Linton. We were just beginning to think something was wrong. I thought I might as well finish, and then another bit of roof fell in, and I had to fix it, Jim answered. Well, it won't be gardening that I'll go in for when I get back to Australia. I've dug enough here to last me my life. Here, here, said someone, and what now? Bed, I think, Desmond said, and to-morrow night the last crawl down that beastly rabbit-run, if we've looked, only this time we won't crawl back. He felt within a little hollow in the earth-wall, and brought out some empty tins and some bottles of water, and slowly, painstakingly, they washed off the dirt that encrusted them. It was a long business, and at the end of it Desmond inspected them all, and was himself inspected, to make sure that no tell-tale streaks remained. Finally he nodded, satisfied, and then, with infinite caution, he slipped back a panel, and peered out into blackness, having first extinguished their little light. There was no sound. He slipped out of the door, and returned after a few moments. All clear, he whispered, and vanished. One by one they followed him, each man gliding noiselessly away. They adorned uniformed coats and trousers before leaving, and closed the entrance to the tunnel with a round screen of rough, interlaced twigs, which they plastered with earth. The tins were buried again, with the bottles. Ordinarily each man carried away an empty bottle, to be brought back next night filled with water. But there was no further need of this. Tomorrow night, please God, there would be no returning, no washing, grouched in the darkness, to escape the eagle eye of the guards, no bitter toil in the darkness, listening with strained ears all the time. Jim was the last to leave. He slipped the panel into position, and placed against it the brooms and mobs used in keeping the bear clean. As he handled them one by one, a brush slipped and clattered ever so slightly. He caught at it desperately, and then stood motionless, beads of perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. But no sound came from without, and presently he breathed more affraily. He stood in a cupboard under the stairs. It was Desmond who first realised that there must be space beyond it, who had planned a way in, and thence to cut a tunnel to freedom. They had found, or stolen, or manufactured, tools, and had cut the sliding panel so conningly that none of the Germans who used the broom-cupboard had suspected its existence. The space on the far side of the wall had given them room to begin their work. Gradually it had been filled with earth until there was barely space for them to move. Then the earth, as they dug it out, had to be laboriously thrust under the floor of the building, which was luckily raised a little above ground. They had managed to secrete some wire, and, having tapped the electrical supply which lit the barrack, had carried a switch-line into their dugout. But the tunnel itself had, for the most part, been done in utter blackness. Three times the roof had fallen in badly, on the second occasion nearly burying Jim and Fullerton. It was considered now that Linton was a difficult man to bury, with an unconquerable habit of resurrecting himself. The score of times they had narrowly escaped detection. For five months they had lived in a daily and nightly agony of fear. Not of discovery itself, or its certain savage punishment, but of losing their chance. There were eight officers altogether in the syndicate, and four others new of their plan. Four who were keen to help, but too badly disabled from moons, to hope for anything but the end of the war. They worked in shifts of four. One quart had stealing on their ground each night, as soon as the guards relaxed their vigil, while the others remained in the dormitories, ready to signal to the working party, should any alarm occur. And, if possible, to create a disturbance to hold the attention of the Germans for a little. They had succeeded in saving the situation three times when a surprise roll-call was made during the night, thanks to another wire which carried an electric alarm signal on their ground from the dormitory. Baelis, who had been an electrical engineer in time of peace, had managed the wiring. It was believed among the syndicate that when Baelis needed any electrical fitting, very badly, he simply went and thought about it so hard that it materialised, like the gentleman who evolved a camel out of his inner consciousness. One of the romances of the Great War might be written about the way in which prisoners bent on escape were able to obtain materials for getting out, and necessary supplies when once they were away from the camp. Much of how it was done will never be known, for the organisation was kept profoundly secret, and those who were helped by it were often pledged solemnly to reveal nothing. Money, plenty of money, was the only thing necessary. Given the command of that, the prisoner who wished to break out would find, mysteriously, tools or disguises or whatever else he needed within the camp, and, after he had escaped, the three essentials, without which he had very little chance—map, compass and civilian clothes. Then, having paid enormous sums for what had probably cost the supply system a few shillings, he was in liberty to strike for freedom, with a section of German territory, a few miles or a few hundred to cross, and finally the chance of circumventing the guards on the Dutch frontier. It was so desperate and undertaking that the wonder was, not that so many failed, but that so many succeeded. Jim Linton had no money. His was one of the many cases among prisoners, in which no letters over seemed to reach home, no communication to be opened up with England. For some time he had not been permitted to write, having unfortunately managed to incur the enmity of the camp commandant by failing to salute him with the precise degree of servility which that official considered necessary to his dignity. Then, when at length he was allowed to send an occasional letter, he waited in vain for any reply, either from his home or his regiment, possibly to command new why. He used to look at Jim with an evil triumph in his eye, which made the boy long to take him by his fat throat and ask him whether indeed his letters ever got farther than the office waste paper basket. Other officers in the camp would have written about him to their friends, so that the information could be passed on to Jim's father. But in all probability their letters also would have been suppressed, and Jim refused to allow them to take the risk. Letters were too precious, and went astray too easily. It was not fair to add to the chances of their failing to reach those who longed for them at home. And then there was always the hope that his own might really have got through, even though delayed, that some day might come answers, telling that at last his father and Nora and Wally were no longer mourning him as dead. He clung to the hope, though one male day after another left him bitterly disappointed. In a German prison camp there was little to do except hope. Jim would have fared badly enough on the miserable food of the camp, but for the other officers. They received parcels regularly, the contents of which were dumped into a common store. And Jim and another orphan were made honorary members of the mess, with such genuine heartiness that after the first protests they ceased to worry their hosts with objections, and merely tried to eat as little as possible. Jim thought about them gratefully on this last night, as he slipped out of the cupboard and made his way upstairs, moving noiselessly as a cat on the bare boards. What good chaps they were, how they had made him welcome, even though his coming meant that they went hungrier. They were such a gay laughing little band. There was not one of them who did not play the game, keeping a cheery front to the world at meeting privation and wretchedness with a joke and a shrug. If that was British spirit, then Jim decided that there be British was a pretty big thing. It was thanks to Desmond and Fullerton that he had been able to join the syndicate. They had plenty of money, and had insisted on lending him his share of the expenses, representing when he had hesitated that they needed his strength for the work of tunneling, after which Jim had laboured far more mightily than they had ever wished, or even suspected. He was fit and strong again now, lean and pinched, as were they all, but in hard training. Hope had keyed him up to a high pitch, the last night in this rat-hole. A light flashed downstairs, and a door flung open just as he reached the landing. Jim sprang to his dormitory, flinging off his coat as he ran, with leaping, stealthy strides. Feet were tramping up the stairs behind him. He dived into his blankets and drew them up under his chin, just as he had dived hurriedly into bed a score of times at school, when an intrusive master had come upon a midnight spread, but with his heart pounding with fear as it had never pounded at school. What did they suspect? Had they found out anything? The guard tramped noisily into the room, under a big felt-wavel or sergeant-major. He flashed his lantern down the long room, and uttered a sharp word of command that brought the sleepers to their feet, blinking and but half awake. Then he called the roll, pausing when he came to Jim. Jim, you sleep in a curious dress. Where is your shirt? Drying, said Jim curtly. I washed it. I've only won. Enough for an English swine-hound, said the German contemptuously. He passed on to the next man, and Jim sighed with relief. Presently the guard clanked out, and the prisoners returned to their straw mattresses. That was near enough, whispered Bailey's, who was next to Jim. A good deal too near, Jim answered. However, it ought to be fairly certain that they won't spring another surprise party on us tomorrow, and that Miss is as good as a mile. He turned over, and in a moment was sleeping like a baby. The next day dragged cruelly. To the eight conspirators it seemed as long as the weary stretch of months since they had come to the camp. For a long while they had avoided each other as far as possible in public, knowing that even two men who talked much together were liable to be suspected of plotting. On this last day they became afraid even to look at each other, and wondered about, each endeavoring to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the other seven. It became rather like a curious game of hide and seek, and by evening they were thoroughly jumpy, with their nerves all on edge. They had no preparations to make. Scarcely any of their few possessions could be taken with them. They would find outside, if ever they got there, food and clothing. They had managed to make rough knives that were fairly serviceable weapons. Beyond these, and a few small personal belongings, they took nothing except the clothes they wore, and they wore as little as possible, and those the oldest and shabbiest things to be found. So there was nothing to do all that last day, but watch the slow hours pass, and endeavor to avoid falling foul of any of the guards. No easy matter since every German delighted in any chance of making trouble for a prisoner. Nothing but to think and plan, as they had planned and thought a thousand times before. To wonder desperately was all safe still, had the door been found in a cupboard under the stairs, was the tunnel safe, or had it chosen to-day of all days to fall in again? Was the exit in a bed of runner-beams already known and watched? The Huns were so cunning in their watchfulness, it was quite likely that they knew all about their desperate enterprise, and were only waiting to pounce upon them in the instant that success should seem within their grasp. That was how they loved to catch prisoners. The age long afternoon dragged to a close. They ate their supper without appetite, which was a pity, since the meagre store of food in the mess had been recklessly ransacked to give them a good send-off. Then another hour, muttering good-byes now and then, as they prowled about, and finally, to bed, to lie there for hours of darkness and silence. Gradually the noise of the camp died down. From the guard-room came, for a while, loud voices and harsh laughter. Then quiet fell there, too, and presently, to-night watched Tram through the berk, on its last visit of inspection, flashing lanterns into the faces of the prisoners. To-night the inspection seemed unusually thorough. It said their strained nurse quivering anew. Then came an hour of utter stillness and darkness, the eight prisoners lying with clenched hands and set teeth, listening with terrible intentness. Finally, when Jim was beginning to feel that he must move or go mad, a final signal came from the doorway. He heard Bailey say, Thank God, under his breath, as he slipped out of bed in the darkness and felt their way downstairs. They were the last to come. The others were all crouched in the cupboard, waiting for them, as they reached its door, and just as they did so, the outer doorway swung open with a blaze of light, and a big felt-way will strode in. Shot the door, Jim whispered. He lunged himself at a German as he spoke, with a spring like a panthers. His fist caught him between the eyes, and he went down headlong, the lantern rolling into a corner. Jim knew nothing of what followed. He was on top of the felt-wayable, pounding his head on the floor, prepared, in his agony of despair, to do as much damage as possible before his brief dash for freedom ended. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he heard Desmond's sharp whisper. Steady, he's unconscious. Let me look at him, Linton. Jim still astride his capture, sat back, and Desmond flashed the felt-wayable's own lantern into that hero's face. Yes, he said, hit his head against something. He stunned anyhow. What are we going to do with him? Is he the only one? Jim asked. It seems like it, but there may be another at any moment. We've got to go on. If he wakes up he'll probably be able to identify you. He felt in his pocket, and produced a coil of strong cord. Come along, Linton, get off and help me to tie him up. They tied up the unconscious felt-wayable securely, and lifted him into the cupboard among the brooms, gagging him in case he felt inclined for any outcry when coming to his senses. The others had gone ahead, and were all ready in the tunnel. With them one of the four disabled officers whose job it was to close up the hall at the entrance, and dismantle the electric light, in the faint hope that the Germans might fail to discover their means of escape, and so leave it free for another party to try for freedom. He stood by the yawning hall, holding one end of a string, by which they were at the signal from the surface, if all went well. The wistfulness of his face haunted Jim long afterwards. Goodbye, old man, he said cheerfully, gripping Jim's hand. Good luck. I wish you were coming, Harrison, Jim said unhappily. No such luck. Cheer oh, dull, the war won't last forever. I'll see you in blighty. They shook hands again, and Jim dived into the tunnel. He knew every inch of it, and wriggled quickly along until the top of his head encountered the boots of the man in front of him, after which he went more slowly. There seemed a long delay at the end, long enough to make him break into a sweat of fear lest something should have gone wrong. Such thoughts come easily enough when you're lying full-length in black darkness, in a hole just large enough to hold a man. In air so stifling that the laboured breath can scarcely come, with a dank earth just under mouth and nose, and overhead a roof that may fall in at any moment. The dragging minutes went by. Then, just as despair seized him, the boots ahead moved. He wriggled after them, finally himself praying desperately as he went. A rush of sweet air came to him, and then a hand, stretching down, caught his shoulder, and helped him out. It was faintly moonlight. This was a thick plantation of runner-beans, trained on rough trellis work, in a garden beyond the barbed wire fence of the camp. The tunnel had turned sharply upwards at the end. They had brought with them some boards and other materials for filling it up. And now they set to work furiously, after giving the signal with the string to Harrison. The three sharp hoax that meant all clear. The boards held the earth they shoveled in with their hands. They stamped it flat, and then scattered loose earth on top, with leaves and rubbish, working with desperate energy, fearing each moment to hear the alarm raised within the barrack. Finally Alba Desmond gained the beaten earth of the path, while he followed, trying to remove all traces of footprints on the soft earth. He joined them in a moment. If they don't worry much about those beans for a few days, they may not notice anything, he said. Come along. So often had they studied away from behind the barbed wire, that they did not need even the dim moonlight. They hurried through the garden with stealthy strides, bending low behind a row of currant bushes, and so over a low hedge and out into a field beyond. There they ran, desperately at first, and gradually slackening to a steady trot that carried them across country for a mile, and then out upon a high road where there was no sign of life. At a crossroads two miles further on they halted. We break up here, Desmond said. You can find your cash all right, you think, Baileys? Oh yes, Baileys nodded. It had been thought too dangerous for so many to try to escape together, so two hiding places of clothes and food had been arranged. Later they would break up again into couples. Then we'd better hurry. Good night, you fellows, and good luck. We'll have the biggest dinner in Blighty together when we all get there. Good luck. Baileys let his party down a row to the east, and Jim Fullerton and Marte stroked south after Desmond, who paused now and then to consult a rough map by a pocket-lamp. On and on by a network of lanes, skirting farmhouses where dogs might bark, flinging themselves flat in a ditch once, when a regiment of oolans swept by, unconscious of the gasping fugitives a few yards away. Jim set up and looked after their retreating ranks. By Jove I wish we could borrow a few of their horses. Might buck you off, my son, said Desmond. Come on. A little wood showed before them presently, in Desmond's side with relief. That's her place, I think. He looked at the map again. We've got to make for the southwest corner and find a big hollow tree. They brushed through the close-growing firs, starting in fear as an owl flew out above them, hooting dismally. It was not easy to find anything, for the moonlight was scarcely able to filter through the branches. Jim took the lead, and presently they scattered to look for the tree. Something big loomed up before Jim presently. It should be about here he muttered, feeling with his hand for the hollow. Then, as he encountered a roughly tight bundle, he whistled softly, and in a moment brought them all to his side. There were four rough suits of clothes in the package, and a big bag of bread, meat, and chocolate, and, most precious of all, a flat box containing maps, compasses, and some German money. They changed hurriedly, trusting their uniforms deep into the hollow of the tree, and covering them with leaves, and then divided the food. There was a faint hint of dawn in the sky, when at length their preparations were complete. Well, you know your general direction, boys, Desmond said to Marsh and Fullerton. Get as far as you can before light, and then hide for the day. Hide well, remember, they'll be looking for us pretty thoroughly today. Good luck. They shook hands and hurried away in different directions. Desmond and Jim came out into open fields beyond the wood, and settled down to steady running over field after field. Sometimes they stumbled over plowed land, sometimes made their way between rows of mangos or turnips, where their feet sank deeply into the yielding soil. Then, with a scramble through a ditch or hedge, came upon grassland for a sheep or cows gazed stolidly at the shadowy, racing figures. The east brightened with long streaks of pink. Slowly the darkness died, and the yellow circle of the sun came up over the horizon, and found them still running, casting anxious glances to right and left in search of a hiding-place. Hang these open fields! Will they never end, Desmond gasped. We should be under cover now. Behind the little orchard a farmhouse came into view. They were almost upon a cowhouse. It was daylight. A window in the house rattled up, and a man shouted to a barking dog. The fugitives ducked by a sudden impulse and darted into the couch-head. It was a long, low building, divided in the stables. There was no hiding-place visible, and the spare held them for a moment. Then Jim called sight of a rough ladder, leading to an opening in the ceiling, and flung his hand towards it. He had no speech left. They went up it hand over hand, and found themselves in a dim loft, with peace-straw heaped at one end. Desmond was almost done. Lie down, quick! Jim pushed him into the straw, and covered him over with great bundles of it. Then he crawled in himself, pulling the rough peace-stalks over him, until he had left himself only a peephole commanding the trap-door. As he did so, voices came into the stable. They held their breath, feeling for their knives. Then Desmond smothered a laugh. What did they say, Jim whispered? It would be, Bail up, Daisy, and English, Desmond whispered back. They're beginning to milk the cows. I wish they'd milk Daisy up here, Jim grinned. Man, but I'm thirsty! It was thirsty work, lying buried in a dusty peace-straw, in a close, airless loft. Hours went by, during which they dared not move, for when the milking was done, and the cows turned out, people kept coming and going in the shed. They picked up a little information about the war from their talk. Jim's German was scanty, but Desmond spoke it like a native, and in the afternoon a farmer, from some distance away, who had apparently come to buy pigs, let fall the remark that a number of prisoners had escaped from the English camp. No one seemed much interested. The war was an incident, not really mattering so much, and their estimation as a sale of the pigs. Then everyone went away, and Jim and his companion fell asleep. It was nearly dark when they awoke. The sleep had done them good, but they were overpoweringly thirsty, so thirsty that the thought of food without drink was nauseating. The evening milking was going on. They could hear the rattle of the streams of milk into the pails, in the intervals of harsh voices. Then the cows were turned out and heavy feet stamped away. They should all be out of the way pretty soon, Desmond whispered. Then we can make a move. We must get to water, somehow, or— he broke off, listening. Boy still, he added quickly, someone is coming up for straw. How do you know? There's a young lady, a chief volunteering to see the bedding for the pigs, Desmond answered. The ladder creaked, and, peering out, they saw a shock yellow head rise into the trap door. The girl who came up was about twenty, stoutly built with a broad, good-humoured face. She wore rough clothes, and but for her too thick place of yellow hair might easily have passed for a man. The heavy steps came slowly across the floor, while the men lay trying to breathe so softly that no unusual movement should stir the loose bee straw. Then, to their amazement, she spoke. Where are you? she said in English. Astonishment, as well as fear, held them silent. She waited a moment and spoke again. I saw you come in. You need not be afraid. Still, they made no sign. She gave a short laugh. Well, if you will not answer, I must at least get my straw for my pigs. She stooped, and her great arms sent the loose dogs flying in every direction. Desmond and Jim set up and looked at her in silence. You don't seem to want to be killed, Desmond said. But assuredly you will be if you raise an alarm. The girl laughed. I could have done that all day if I had wished, she said, ever since I saw you run in when I put up my window this morning. Well, what do you want? Money. No, she shook her head. I do not want anything. I was brought up in England, and I think this is a silly war. There is a bucket of milk for you downstairs. It will come up if one of you will pull the string you will find tied to the top of the ladder. She laughed. If I go to get it, you will think I am going to call for help. Jim was beyond prudence at the moment. He took three strides to the ladder, found a cord, and pulled up a small bucket, three parts full of new milk. The girl sat down on an empty oil drum, and watched them drink. So, you are thirsty indeed, she said. Now I have food. She unearthed from a huge pocket a package of bread and sausage. Now you can eat. It is quite safe, and you could not leave yet. My uncle is still wondering about. He is like most men. They wonder about, and are very busy, but they never do any work. I run the farm. I get no wages either. But in England I got wages, and clap them. That is the place of all others which I prefer. Do you indeed, Desmond said, staring at his amazing female. But why did you leave, clap him? My father came back to fight. He knew all about the war. He left England two months before it began. I did not wish to leave. I desired to remain, earning good wages. But my father would not permit me. And where is he now? She shrugged her shoulders. I do not know. Fighting. Killed, perhaps. But my uncle graciously offered me a home, and here I am. I do the work of three men, and I am. How did we say it in clap them? Bored stiff for England. I wish the silly old war would end, so that I could return. We are trying to return without waiting for it to end, so, Jim solemnly. Only I'd like to know how you knew what we were. But what else could you be? It is so funny how you put on these clothes, like the ostrich, and think no one will guess who you are. If you wore his suit of feathers, he would still look like British officers, and nothing else. You're encouraging, said Desmond Grimley. I hope all your nation won't be as discerning. Ah, day! said the girl. They see no farther than their noses. I, too, was like that before I went to clap them. It's a pleasant spot, said Desmond. I don't wonder you improved there. But all the same. You are German, aren't you? I don't quite see why you want to be friendless. He took a satisfying mouthful of sausage. But I'm glad you do. In England I am, well, pretty German, said his fair hostess. The boys in Clapham, they call me Polly Sauerkraut, and I talk of the Fatherland and sing, Die Wacht am Rhein. Oh, yes. But when I come back here, and work for my so economical uncle, on his beastly farm, then I remember Clapham, and I do not feel German at all. I cannot help it. But if I said so, I would skinned be very quickly. So I say Gott strafe England. But that is only eye-wash. Well, we'll think kindly of one German woman anyhow, said Desmond. The last of your charming sisters I met was a Red Cross nurse at a station where our train pulled up when I was going through, wounded. I asked her for a glass of water, and she brought it to me all right. Only just as she gave it to me, she spat in it. I've been a woman-hater ever since, until I met you. He lifted the bucket, and looked at her over its rim. Here's your very good health, Miss Polly Sauerkraut, and may I meet you in Clapham. The girl beamed. Oh, I will be there, she said confidently. I have money in the bank in London. I will have a little baker's shop, and you will get such pastry as the English cannot make. Jim laughed. And then you will be pretty German again. I do not know, she shook her head. No, I think I will just be Swiss. They will not know the difference in Clapham, and I do not think they will want Germans back. Of course, the Germans will go. But they will call themselves Swiss, Poles, any old thing. Just at first, until the English forget. The English always forget, you know. If they forget, all they've got to remember over this business, well then, they deserve to get the Germans back, said Desmond Grimley. Always accepting yourself, Miss Polly. You'd be an ornament to which every nation you happened to favour at the moment. He finished the last remnant of a sausage. That was uncommonly good. Thank you. Now, don't you think we could make a move? I will see if my uncle is safely in. Then I will whistle. She ran down the ladder, and presently they heard a low call, and going down found her awaiting them in a couch-head. He is at his supper, so all is quite safe, she said. Now you had better take a third road to the right, and keep straight on. It is not so direct as the main road, but that would lead you through several places where the police are very active, and there is a reward for you, you know. She laughed, her white teeth flashing in a dim shed. Goodbye, and when I come back to Clapham, you will come and take tea at my little shop. We'll come and make you the fashion, Miss Polly, Sir Desmond. Thank you a thousand times. They swung off into the dusk.