The first few miles out of Rheine passed by with surprising ease. Then as we passed along a straight stretch of road close to Ochtrup we were stopped by a patrol standing or rather reeling in front of a public-house. These half-dozen men, bored with inaction, had improved the shining hour by drinking beer until all the world seemed changed. They were armed heavily with ancient rifles, each obviously loaded. Our unfortunate belongings were again dragged into view and a hilarious examination followed, the while two of the more drunken men tried to show their belief that we were good fellows by kissing us both with beery enthusiasm. Finally, we were allowed to go amidst their drunken cheers. We had covered about half a mile when several bullets whistled by, despatched by our late friends as a further token of their joyous sporting instincts! None hit us and we passed on into Ochtrup, where the most amazing incident of all befell us. We were taken into the Town Hall and were passed as unsuspicious when, suddenly, the manner of our captors changed from smiles to frowns. A chauffeur had arrived who swore that he recognised us as two suspects who had escaped from custody at Buckedorf, a village some miles on the Berlin side of Minden. Nothing could shake him in his accusation and things looked unutterably black for us. Tempers are hasty when war is the common occupation, and sentences of death at the worst are only ‘regrettable mistakes’ when too much haste has been used. Some open packets of cartridges on the table added nothing to the pleasure of our feelings. A woman, who alone could speak English with any fluency, was brought in to translate and she, too, did little to improve our position. From her attitude one supposes she had met incivility in England during her visit to our country.
Suddenly it struck us that perhaps the man had seen us at Minden, and as we had a pass from that town all would be well if we could convince him of his mistake. To our joy he at once admitted that he was wrong and we were permitted to leave.
On arrival at Gronau we found that the car must remain in Germany, so we drove to the station in order to find out whether trains still ran. Here, to our surprise, we were again arrested by the Customs authorities and were hauled before the Burgomaster and some local councillors. We had as translator a German-American who, unpleasant in his prosperous appearance, suggested we should answer the questions in a way prompted by him. This we refused, as the object of lying did not appear clear to us. It was well, as later it appeared that one at least of those present could speak English with ease.
At this stage in the journey appeared one of those amazing coincidences that occur as one passes through life. As our names were given in the course of the written evidence, an old councillor asked me in English if I came from Lancashire. When I admitted this he said that forty years before he had been working in that county and during that time he had been befriended by a man of my name. It appeared on a further description that this good Samaritan was closely related to me! This fortunate incident had, I am sure, some effect on our position.
In the end the Burgomaster telephoned to the G.O.C. at Munster, putting our case as favourably as possible, and describing us as Americans. Permission was given by this higher authority for our release. A local mill owner who had given us every assistance garaged the car, and undertook to take care of it. Thus did we part in a friendly mood.
An hour later we entered Enschede after a long argument with the Customs officer, who thought us too dirty to be respectable. Next day found us at the Hague, where, in our rags but happy, we dined at the Hôtel des Indes. Here we read the Times and heard of the declaration of war. That night we crossed to Harwich.
Note.—Keating on arrival in town applied for and was given a commission in the Royal Flying Corps. Later he transferred to the Irish Guards. On January 20, 1915, he was killed in France during bombing practice by the premature explosion of a bomb which he was using for demonstration purposes. So ended a life of enthusiasm. The world lost a very gallant gentleman in Harry Sheehy Keating. Yet
At the door of life, at the gate of breath
There are worse things waiting for men than death.