Almost exactly two years ago, as I write these lines,the famous Holzminden Tunnel became history.Even then, when the sordid camp was still lending (andseemed likely to lend in perpetuum) its grey colour toevery aspect of life, when sense of proportion was practicallydormant and racial animosity intensified to thehighest pitch, it was impossible to overlook the peculiardramatic proprieties of the event. Some day, it was felt,this story might be fittingly told.

And in the retrospect the feeling remains unaltered.The harsh angles have softened: the tumult and theshouting have died away to the remoter cells of memory:Captain Niemeyer (of the Reserve) has departed—Godknows where! His imperial master is dragging out anunhappy old age in exile. The British protagonists andwalkers-on in the 9-months struggle have scattered tothe ends of the Empire on their lawful occasions. Oncein a blue moon perhaps they think of it and rub theireyes. The details are already vague. The whole of theirprison existence seems absurdly far away.

But it is in the hope that they will care to follow withnot uncritical interest the following plain unvarnishedaccount of the Tunnel episode that I, a mere looker-on,have sorted out the threads and fitted the jumble together.If any think this an impertinence,

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