had a pack similar to mine, and when we got them ready and our overcoats on, we started off in a southeasterly direction, guided by the light from the place we had left.  We walked as fast as we could in the darkness, which was heavy enough to hide in, but made progress very difficult, for we could not see each other or one step before us.  We tripped over a railway track once, and if there had been any one near they might have heard us.

But in spite of the rain, which fell with steady insistence and began to weigh down our overcoats; in spite of the blackness which made the travelling unbelievably difficult; in spite of the fact that we were in a land of enemies, playing a desperate game against terrible odds, we were happier than either of us had been since being taken to Germany, for a weight had been rolled off our souls.  We were on our way to freedom!

When we found it necessary to consult the compass, I took off my overcoat and lay flat on the ground with my compass and matches ready.  Bromley put my coat over my head and shoulders, tucking it well in around me, so no light could shine through.  Then I struck a match, and in its light made the observation, always taking into consideration the fact that in that part of Europe the compass points sixteen or seventeen degrees west of due north.

We were careful to avoid the main roads and to seek out the seldom-travelled, ones, for we knew that our only chance was in not being seen at all, as we wore our own Canadian uniforms, which would brand us at once for what we were.  Added to that, we could not form a single German sentence if we were challenged.  Of course, I could say “that Herr Schmidt expected to have his young child baptized in the church next Sunday, God willing,” but I felt that that was not altogether the proper reply to make to the command—­“Halt!  Wer da?”

The villages were very thick here, and our chief difficulty was to keep out of them.  Once we ventured rather close to the road which ran near the railroad, and heard a number of people talking.  They were travellers who had alighted from the train which had raced past us in the darkness a few minutes before.  The station is often quite a distance from the village, and these were the passengers walking back to their homes—­the village which we had been avoiding.

We dropped to the ground, and the people went by, one old man singing.  I knew he was old, for his voice was cracked and thin, but of great sweetness, and he sang an aria from a musical comedy which was popular then, called “The Joy of Life.”  I had heard a doctor in the lazaret singing it.

When the sound had grown fainter in the distance, we came out of our hiding-place and went on.

“It seems hard,” said Bromley, “to be fighting with people who can sing like that.  I can’t work up any ill-will to that good old soul, going home singing—­and I don’t believe he has any ill-will to us.  I couldn’t fight the Germans if they were all like this old chap and Sank!”