The Story of a Sensational Escape from the Germans
Told by Sergeant "Maurice Prost," of the Belgian Army
"Maurice Prost"—now a sergeant in the Belgian army, escaped from Belgium, with a party of over forty men and two women, in very romantic circumstances. How he and an Alsatian outwitted the Huns is here narrated in his own words, as recorded by a correspondent who met him in Paris. For obvious reasons all the names have been disguised in this tale in the Wide World Magazine.
I—"I WAS IN A CAFE IN LIEGE"
The outset of the whole affair dates from one intensely cold day in the middle of December, 1916. I had slipped into an obscure café in a small street in Liége as much in search of tranquility of mind as with the object of getting a comforting glass of hot coffee. With thousands of other Liégois I was trembling under the reign of terror caused by the daily slave-raids, which, ever since their inception a fortnight before by order of that arch-criminal, the Kaiser, had raised a mighty cry of anguish from the stricken city.
It was with a sigh of relief that I found the place was empty. Taking a seat at one of the little marble-topped tables, as near to the meagrely-heated circular stove as I could get, I prepared to snatch a brief spell of quietness from that day of sudden alarms and haunting fears.
But I had no sooner taken my first comforting gulp of the steaming hot liquid, served by a careworn woman in widow's weeds, than an incident occurred which sent a cold thrill to my heart. The café door opened, and in walked a German soldier, dressed as a feldwebel. After taking in the interior with a quick glance he clanked straight up to the stove, rubbed his hands vigorously, and, calling for a "Café bien chaud," in excellent French, sat down opposite to me with a formal "Bonjour!"
I responded to his greeting with all the indifference I could summon up, but, eyeing him suspiciously, my inner self uttered the word "Pincé." There could be no doubt about it; I had "got dropped on" at last. Immediately my mind became once more engrossed with thoughts of the loathsome beast I had pictured the Huns to be—a huge octopus, faced by defeat and death, which had begun to suck the last drop of blood out of my unfortunate country by sending tens of thousands of men, women, and children into captivity. Now, at last, one of its tentacles had writhed my way and was about to seize me up! My heart was filled with a fierce hatred of the feldwebel sitting opposite me. A cynical smile seemed to lurk in his eyes—that look of inexorable cruelty which I had seen so often on the faces of the Huns as they went from house to house, dragging sons and daughters from the arms of their aged parents and driving them off into exile with the butt-ends of their rifles. These daily and nightly scenes, terrifying though they were had fascinated me. Should I make a clean breast of it and drag the mask from the rascal's smiling face, or spring at his throat and shake the life out of him?
Whilst I was in the midst of these conflicting thoughts the feldwebel drew forth a packet of cigarettes and, having pulled one half out held it towards me with a well-assumed air of good fellowship.