My story could well be called "An Escape from the Jaws of Hell"--for a prisoner's life in Germany under the present conditions is surely a hell on earth. During my six weeks' stay in Denmark I have interviewed neutral sailors who have been sent out of Germany, and old men who have been passported out on account of extreme old age; also prisoners who have escaped over the border into Denmark via the coal-train route, and these men one and all paint a picture of a prisoner's life in Germany as being a veritable hell on earth. We sailed from San Francisco on the 15th day of May, 1917, with a cargo of 15,000 cases of benzine, for Sydney, Australia. After letting go the tug boat and getting sail on the ship, we all settled down for a quiet and uneventful passage. Seldom have I gone to sea under more favourable circumstances. A tight little vessel, a good deep water crew of Scandinavian sailor men, plenty of good wholesome provisions and a cook who knew his business. Both the first and second mates were officers of the old school, with years of experience, so it seemed that I was fortunate in getting so evenly balanced a crew, as owing to the frenzied state of shipping along the Pacific Coast at that time the master was indeed fortunate who found on getting to sea that half of this crew could box the compass, much less hand, reef and steer. Even under these favourable circumstances there was a "fly in the ointment." On counting noses I made the discovery that the entire ship's company amounted to thirteen (an unlucky number, as every "salt" will testify). A ship's crew of eleven, counting myself, and two passengers, my wife and little daughter. When I called this fact to my wife's attention she laughed at me, saying that was "old sailor's tommyrot" and that we were living in the twentieth century and should have outgrown such silly superstitions. Nevertheless, owing to a strain of Scotch blood in my veins, the superstition remained in my mind for many days until, owing to the humdrum uneventfulness of our progress, this thought died a natural death. I crossed the equator well to the westward, passing the Fiji Islands and hoping that when I ran out of the southeast trade winds I would get a favourable wind and cut close by the southern ends of New Caledonia. I had a hunch, and if I had been lucky and had two days' favourable wind this story would never have happened. But unfortunately, unfavourable winds were encountered, forcing me to the southward and into the regular sailing vessel route.