Trafford Publishing - Home
Bookstore Publishing Offices
About the
Bookstore 		divider Browse
Aisles 		divider Search
Desk 		divider Shopping
Basket 		divider Book Trade
Terms 		divider Just
Released! 		divider Return
Policy 		divider Help

Here is the full reference card for this book...

If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Getaway

by F. J. Whiting

198 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0092; ISBN 1-55212-427-4; US$19.50, C$23.95, EUR15.60, £10.80

Working from his tattered WWI diaries, Frank Whiting takes us back to the horrors of trench warfare. With him we endure cold and hungry days in German prison camps and with him we risk death again and again in repeated bids for freedom.

Read more!

About the book      About the author      Sample excerpt      Catalogue info

About the Book

In the spring of 1915, when the sinking of the Lusitania screamed across the headlines, 20 year old Frank Whiting dropped out of agricultural college. He left his Saskatchewan farm to the care of his father and younger brother and went - very reluctantly indeed - to the hell and horror of World War I. Serving with his university corps in the PPCLI, he survived the battles of Ypres, Sanctuary Wood, The Somme, Vimy Ridge and Passchendaele. He changed as the dreadful years dragged on, from a green kid, "innocent, trustful and believing everything my elders told me. After three years of war I was no longer innocent; I believed nothing except that God had died or didn't care. My trustfulness and dependence had given place to a well-developed ability to look after myself. I was an expert at dodging parades, guards and fatigues when out on a so-called rest. In the trenches I knew all there was to know about making the poorest of dugouts comfortable; how to rustle food and whiskey from officers and others whom I thought were getting more than their share of good things. I could tell the instant a battery or machine-gun spoke whether to hurl myself prone or walk on indifferently. To me the war was something to be endured and, if possible, survived, At twenty-three I was an old soldier in everything the term implied - and little of it was good."

When on August 27th of 1918 he was captured by the Germans, he needed all his courage and resourcefulness as he set himself to escape the stench and starvation of the prison camp. His story is one of stubborn independence and flashing humour, of audacity, a strange sympathy for the enemy soldiers he encountered and of friends and comrades lost forever.

His adventures are preserved in this book and in his battered, stained and faded diaries - testaments to human courage and the incredible folly of war.

REVIEWS OF GETAWAY

"What sets this small narrative apart is his account of capture, his encounters as a prisoner of war and his escape and evasion..."

- from Esprit de Corps
2002

----------------------------------

One doesn't expect to come across a new escape memoir over eighty years after the First World War, but Getaway is just such a book. Whiting joined up from a Saskatchewan agricultural college in 1915 and saw some pretty tough fighting on the Western Front before he was captured in August 1918.
The bulk of the book is concerned with his experiences in captivity. Given that the war lasted just a few more months after Whiting was captured, he seems to have spent more time on the run than in the bag. It was often ridiculously easy for him to get away from his captors; often he only had to step out of line and dodge into a field. However, he found it much more difficult to get back to British lines, even though he was only imprisoned at Valenciennes, not far from the front. In the end, after a number of attempts to get through the lines, he was persuaded to go into hiding in a small village and await the war's end.
It would be interesting to know a little more about the genesis of this memoir. Whiting, who died of pneumonia in 1937, was a freelance writer after the war, but it is not clear when he wrote this account, or how it differs from a diary which is mentioned in the preface. The tone suggests that it might have been written around the time of the anti-war books of the late 1920s, for some of the philosophizing clearly owes something to Erich-Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front. Still, there is no denying that Whiting was in the right job as a freelance writer, because he can certainly spin a good yarn.

- from the Canadian Military History Book Review Supplement
Spring 2001

----------------------------------

"An interesting book, easy reading, refreshingly honest."

Jim Hume in The Victoria Times-Colonist
November, 2000

----------------------------------

TRUE STORY OF WORLD WAR I POW ESCAPE MORE EXCITING THAN FICTION

"Not only is Getaway an exciting book, it is extremely well written. From the first page, Whiting draws the reader along with his compelling prose. His balanced outlook on the war and its combatants provides a refreshing respite from the mindless, propaganda-inspired nationalism with which the era is so often painted. And it's probably a more realistic portrait of what the men who faced each other across the muddy ruin of No Man's Land thought. Whiting provides a picture of the conflict that rings true as crystal more than 70 years later. Getaway is a worthwhile, enjoyable book on many levels."

Dennis West, The Beacon, Wisconsin
October 2000

----------------------------------

About the Author

Lured by the promise of cheap Saskatchewan land, young Frank Whitingís family came from England in 1904. They broke the sod and roofed their cabin with it and cleared the land of rocks and stones. By the time Frank was 20 he had his own farm and had finished his second year at Agricultural College. But it was 1915. He went to war, survived all the major Canadian battles, was captured and escaped - frequently. He returned to Britain and married his English sweetheart. At home here in Canada he farmed and freelanced for a dozen years before selling up and moving to Vancouver where he died of pneumonia in 1937.

Sample Excerpt

At last, climbing a low bank fringed with willows I discovered myself upon the brink of the canal.

I looked cautiously in both directions but could see no one. Neither could I see an empty boat carelessly left for my convenience.

Well, the canal would certainly be patrolled. What was the time between each patrol? Carefully hidden in the long grass, I lay and watched and presently they came. Two men and corporal. They passed and returned, passed and returned again. The longest time I could reasonably depend upon was only ten minutes.

The next thing was to find something to help hold me up while swimming across. I could see no signs of any wiring having been done, but I considered that if I had been putting the wire in the canal as a trap, I would have buried the wiring irons to which it was attached. The Germans might have done the same thing. But the wire had to be risked.

I could hear the deliberate stutter of a German Maxim. And then one of our Lewis guns would send its smooth stream of bullets softly whistling overhead in reply.

Coming back a little from the canal I started to look for a log or board or two but the only material I could find that would float was a few wicker shell baskets. These baskets or panniers were made to hold four shells each and to fasten onto a pack-saddle, one on either side. I procured four which were in good enough repair for my purpose. I made a sort of mattress or raft about two feet wide by six in length. With this flimsy aid I resolved to make my attempt.

The night was clear and the moon so high that I considered it best to wait until it had set. While crouching under the hedge waiting for darkness I bethought me of the matter of eats. This was natural enough since the last of my bread had disappeared during the day while I shivered, wet and cold, among the weeds. All I had left to nibble at were a few horse beans which I had gleaned from a field the night before. Of these I had not more than a dozen so they did not help much. However, I was not so very hungry. My increasing nervousness acted as a substitute for food. In many ways this was the most dangerous hazard of the whole attempt.

I might drown through sheer inability to get across. Or I might get hooked by the wire and drown that way. I might get tangled and provide target practice for the patrol or I might get safely across only to climb out of the canal into the waiting arms of a patrol on the other side.

The next half hour promised to be interesting!

Slowly the moon lowered, its colour shading gradually from white to yellow and then, just as it disappeared, to a rich orange.

Unlacing my boots I secured them to the front end of my raft. I waited still a little longer until the night was as dark as it would get.

The next time the Germans passed I would go. My excitement rose higher as the moments crawled.

Presently I heard their heavy footfalls as the patrol thumped toward me, their boots scuffing the gravel along the tow-path.

They came abreast. They passed on ..... One hundred paces.... One hundred and fifty.

Now!

I rose, cautiously lifting my awkward contraption which wobbled and creaked alarmingly. Up the bank, over the path and I launched my frail craft. Sitting on the bank I slid gently into the icy water, flopping forward onto the shell-baskets as I did so.

They proved to be quite buoyant, in fact too much so and I wriggled back off them a little to avoid being upset. In spite of my best efforts I made a certain amount of noise. Being partly out of the water my arms dripped at every stroke and my legs made a little splash.

I was getting on fine and was just thanking my stars that the wire scare was only a rumour when I felt something catch my leg, It did not stop me at once but I knew I was hooked. Swiftly backing water I reached down with one arm and attempted to disengage the barbs. With a little trouble I did so but as the wire dropped it caught my other leg.

Frantically I worked and tore myself free once more.

On again, splashing and swimming desperately in an effort to make up the lost time...Only twenty yards to go... fifteen...

Suddenly I heard heavy boots pounding along the tow-path behind me. Hoarse shouts ... What to do? What to do?

I still kept doggedly paddling...Again the challenge. They would fire now...Dear God!

Ten yards yet...And in my eagerness to get to shore I dropped my feet too soon and was promptly snagged again.

Crack! A bullet cut the water with a little "plunk" close to my head. I rolled off my support and lowered my body out of sight.

Crack! Crack! The whole party now opened fire while I tore at my trapped leg.

Catalogue Information

Canada • USA • UK • Europe
Contact Us | Privacy Policy | Terms of use | Author Login

URL http://www.trafford.com © 1995-2007 Trafford Publishing, a division of Trafford Holdings Ltd.

  Request a Publishing Guide