KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL!
Whether or not the boches could understand this much, or this little,
English was a matter of no importance. They evidently knew what the
Marine in khaki meant, and they obeyed, several of them yelling
“Kamerad!” in tones of panic.
Phil had not forgotten all his school German vocabulary. The next order
that left his lips slipped out with very good Prussian accent:
“Kom her! Hande ueber Kopf.”
The now timid Teutons advanced with hands over their heads toward their
youthful captor, in strict obedience to the order.
Phil was relieved that his prisoners did not laugh at his German. They
came forward with all due respect for the order given—or was it for the
bullets in the boy’s gun? He did not know. Under ordinary civil
circumstances he would have hesitated to engage in conversation with a
German in the latter’s native tongue for fear lest he show his ignorance
of the idioms of the language. “Hande ueber Kopf” was a literal
translation of “hands over (your) head.” It might be very good German,
and then again it might be very poor.
Relieved at the failure of his prisoners to give him the laugh, he
decided to continue to give orders in their language whenever he could
recall words that seemed to carry the intended meaning. But he found it
difficult sometimes to keep from laughing at himself, for he knew
unmistakably that some of the German he was using was at least unique.
Still his prisoners regarded him with profound respect—or, again, was it
the bullets in his gun?
Phil was puzzled what to do with his prisoners, whose condition of
captivity was, after all, rather uncertain. He dared not take his eyes
off them for a moment. Possibly some or all of them carried small
firearms, which they would bring into action at a moment’s opportunity.
The boy dared not attempt to search them, nor dared he attempt to march
them back through the woods toward the American rear line. They were
almost certain, if they carried such weapons, to find an opportunity, by
springing behind large trees, to whip out their pistols and turn the
tables on him.
There were evidently only three courses open for Phil to pursue. One was
to stand where he was and compel his prisoners to remain in their
present positions, with hands over their heads until help came. Another
was to shoot the six men down in their tracks as rapidly as he was able
to discharge his repeater accurately. The other was to turn and flee
with all his well practiced fleetness of foot.
The last he could not consider for an instant. The second was contrary
to American principles opposed to unnecessary frightfulness in war. The
first was impracticable in view of the fact that the sun was setting and
darkness would soon cover the ravine.
It occurred to the young sergeant that he might also compel his
doubtfully secured captives to divest themselves of their uniforms in
order to make certain that they had no concealed firearms, but such a
course would not guarantee his ability to prevent them from escaping in
the woods after dark. It might, however, be the means eventually of
saving his life if the men should escape from him, and Phil decided to
adopt it as a precautionary measure.
But at the same time he cast about him in a vague hope that help of some
kind might be at hand. He glanced quickly up to see if perchance the
French flyer was not about to offer him further assistance, but that
very thoughtful air-fighter was now engaged in a skirmish with an enemy
plane, which was taking them farther and farther away from the
precarious scene in the ravine. Then the young officer bethought him of
his fallen companion, and with almost hysterical hopefulness he cast a
quick glance toward the spot where the corporal had dropped without a
groan. As he did so, it seemed that he must behold his friend rising on
his hands and knees in a determination to lend his much needed
assistance.
Phil shuddered as he saw the bullet-headed boy lying as still as any
corpse on a battlefield.
“Poor Tim,” he muttered. “He was sure he wouldn’t be killed. Well, so am
I,” the doubtful captor of six doubtful prisoners added. “I’m not going
to be killed—I _know_ it. I’m going to kill, kill, kill, kill, kill,
kill, as Tim said I should do. There, I said ‘kill’ six times. That
means that these six prisoners have to die as rapidly as this repeater
can repeat. Fortunately, I’m a sharpshooter and can do the job before
the last one of them can much more than shudder and look pale. Well,
here goes, converting my army rifle into a machine-gun.”