CHAPTER XXII

THE LONG ROAD TO FREEDOM

When we had taken all the milk we could extract from the cows, we moved off quietly to the corner of the field farthest from the buildings, to get back to the road.  We were going over the fence as gently as possible, when we saw two men whom we knew from their uniforms to be French prisoners.  They were evidently escaping, like ourselves, but had been more fortunate than we, for they had packs on their backs.  We tried to get their attention by calling to them, but the French word for “friend” did not come to us, only the German “Kamerad,” and when they heard that, they took us for Germans and ran with all speed.  We dared not pursue them, or even call, for fear of being heard; so had to see the two big packs, which no doubt had chocolate, sardines, bread, and cheese in them, disappear in the darkness.  However, it may have been just as well—­two escaping prisoners are enough, for safety.

September 2d was a fine day, with several hours of sunshine.  From where we had taken refuge in a high spruce thicket, we could look out across a wide heather moor, all in bloom and a glorious blaze of color, amethyst, purple, mauve, with the bright September sun pouring down upon it.  Our spirits always rose when the sun came out, and sank again when the day grew dark.

[Illustration:  A Prison Post-Card from Friedrichsfeld bei Wesel / The group includes soldiers from Canada, Newfoundland, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, France, Belgium, Italy, Russia, Serbia, and Roumania.]

Since these experiences of battling bare-handed with the elements I can understand why primeval man fell into sun-worship, for on the caprice of the sun with its power to give or withhold, the happiness and well-being of the roofless traveller depends.

We stayed closely in the dark shadows of the heavy evergreens that day, although just beyond was the golden sunlight with its warmth and comfort, for we were afraid to show ourselves in the open.  That night we came upon a potato garden, and dug out some with our fingers, filling our pockets and our handkerchiefs with them.  We had a good night, and shoved the miles behind us.  We had promised ourselves a fire just at dawn, and the thought of it, and the potatoes we should bake, was wonderfully cheering.

Just at the beginning of the dawn, in that gray, misty light, a fire can scarcely be seen, for the air is something the color of smoke, and there is enough light to hide the fire.  At night the fire shows, and in the daylight, the smoke, but in the gray dawn it is not easy to see either.  So on the morning of September 3d, we gathered dry sticks and made our first fire.  There was a blue veil of haze on the horizon, and a ragged gray mist hung over the low places.  The air was sweet with the autumn smell of fallen leaves and wood bark, and as we sat over our tiny fire, we almost forgot that we were in a world of enemies.  The yellow beeches and the dark green spruces bent over us in friendliest fashion, and a small bird chased a hawk above the trees.