On a Friday evening of early December, my dear friend and fellow-prisoner, Captain Tim Sugrue, and I conspired to take French leave from the German prison _Lager_ and make a bolt for Berlin. Six o’clock next morning found us at the station; a little diplomacy and we had obtained tickets--singles only, as we must return by a different route. From Beeskow to Berlin is a run of two hours and a half. For the latter part of the journey we are with business men. There is unfolding of newspapers, and we catch sight of occasional headlines. Street fighting in Berlin last night; 14 killed, 50 wounded. Anything may be expected to happen to-day--which means that anything may be expected to happen to us. As we pass Karlshorst an obliging German directs our attention to it as the German Derby; as we enter the environs of the town he has a pointing hand for various features of interest. Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse. As we make our way out through the barriers among the crowd, a tall, handsome gentleman and a young lady--equally handsome--who is obviously his daughter, seem to convey to us a telepathic smile of friendliness. In a few minutes we find them beside us in the throng; there comes a whisper in not entirely perfect English, “Thank God, Britain has won!”--and then they are gone. With a quick understanding the girl collector at the barrier permits me to retain my ticket as a souvenir. We have had no breakfast; we are hungry; we make so bold as to enter a restaurant near the station. The waiter attends us, without apparent curiosity, and as of long custom. For three marks we have a fried haddock, some salad, and a cup of coffee. We could easily have paid as much in London for as little--we could easily have paid more. For proof of my veracity to future historians, I slip a menu card into my pocket. From the instruction of a rather intelligent _Posten_ at Beeskow I have taken the precaution to prepare a rough plan of the centre of this most centralized of all great cities. We pass up Friedrichstrasse, and at the point where it intersects Unter den Linden pause for a moment, undecided as to left or right. It immediately becomes apparent that we must not pause, even for a moment. We are already the centre of a curious little crowd. “What can I do for you, Captain?” Hat in hand, a youth of seventeen or eighteen approaches. We explain that we are simply up for the day, so to speak, and as I can see what is obviously the _Dom_ on our left, we make off at a sharp pace down the boulevard. The people have seen British officers before; it is only when it dawns upon them that we are unaccompanied by a guard that their eyes begin to open. There is no hint of hostility, however. Twice during the day we are directly asked by civilians if we are in advance of a possible army of occupation.