A NOVEL DISARMAMENT
“No, I can’t do it. I’m no Hun.”
That sentiment, which flashed revulsively through Phil’s brain, probably
saved the lives of those six boches, but it also must be held
responsible for certain subsequent misfortunes and hardships that
rendered Sergeant Speed’s army experiences worthy of a many-chaptered
record. Meanwhile there was nothing in the boy’s manner or actions that
indicated what was going on in his mind. None of them knew how narrowly
they escaped execution at the hands of a “firing squad of one.”
Phil’s next order to his captives was such a mongrel admixture of
English, poor French and worse German that he has asked that it be not
recorded against him. But it was thoroughly understood, being in several
short sentences intended to carry something of an explanation of his
purpose, and was obeyed.
One of the men with hands over their heads was directed to step forward
and remove his “roch und beinkleider.” This he did expeditiously, having
a great respect for the khaki boy’s gun, and presently appeared in the
very amusing combination of—beginning at the feet, surveying upward—a
pair of coarse heavy shoes, a suit of union underwear and a steel
helmet.
It had occurred to Phil several times since the dropping of the bomb
from the aeroplane that he could best serve his own interests in the
present predicament by sending forth the call agreed upon for
reassembling the members of his squad, except for one grave possibility.
The sounding of such a call might be taken by his six prisoners as
indicating panic on his part and serve as a signal for a desperate move
by them. He decided, therefore, to make certain that they were stripped
of all firearms, before issuing any such summons.
So he continued the de-uniforming program already begun, and soon six
much humiliated boches stood before him in “union-suit uniforms,” the
“complexion” of which indicated that the laundry business was not
thriving among the minions of the war lords of central Europe.
Then Phil ordered his prisoners to move a considerable distance away
from the litter of uniforms strewn over the ground. When he was
satisfied as to their position and arrangement, he issued a few more
orders with his ingenious, but hardly idiomatic adaptation of first-year
school German, which were obeyed with, as much respect as if delivered
by a Heidelberg graduate with military authority.
The prisoners, who no longer were required to keep their hands over
their heads, were standing near the apparently lifeless form of Corporal
Tim; and Phil now, with the aid of expressive motions of his hands and
nodding of his head, communicated to them that he desired an examination
made of his friend to determine if he were yet alive. The officer in
charge, a fellow of surprisingly large girth for a soldier, and another
boche of ungainly physique complied with apparent alacrity, and after a
seemingly diligent inspection straightened up with looks of sadness on
their faces that would have been comical indeed if it had not been for
the seriousness of the situation. With voluble expressions of condolence
and deprecating shrugs of their shoulders, they gave the young American
soldier to understand that they regretted profoundly that his companion
lying on the ground was dead.
“You’re a pretty pair of liars,” Phil said to them with a “happy scowl.”
He made no effort, however, to express himself in German, for his
utterance was intended more as an outburst of feeling than a
communication. “That boy is alive, or I don’t know anything about the
early stiffening of a corpse. When you lifted that body up it hung as
limp and limber as a wet rag.”
Whether any of the six captives understood what Sergeant Phil said could
not be determined from the expression, or lack of expression, on their
faces. However, that question mattered little to Phil now. He must do
something quickly to secure his prisoners against escape and also to
effect freedom for himself, in order that he might render much needed
first aid to his unconscious friend.
In his early school days, Phil had been the envy of all his boy friends
because of one achievement that every boy longs to attain. He could
pucker his tongue against his teeth and expel a gust of breath through
the straitened avenue thus formed in such manner as to vie in shrillness
a miniature fire alarm siren. He was not much good at whistling a tune,
but he surely could wake the echoes with a piercing air blast through
his teeth, and this he proceeded now to do.
It was his agreed signal to the other members of his squad to assemble
and it surely startled the six boches, as was evident from the fact that
their faces no longer were expressionless. There was no doubt in the
boy’s mind now that their minds had been secretly busy over something
that they did not wish communicated to him and that his shrill signal
was not in the least pleasing to them.
However, although Phil never had all the facts and circumstances before
him to aid him in determining the truth, he is of the opinion now that
his call was the one thing needed by his prisoners to bring about the
very result for which they longed most deeply. But the startled look on
their faces indicated that they did not know it.
Phil waited a minute for an answer from other members of his squad, but
received none. Then he was about to repeat the call, when something
occurred that rendered another shrill whistle through his teeth
virtually impossible.
Suddenly a heavy weight landed on him from behind. A pair of powerful
arms were thrown about his neck, and he was borne to the ground by the
impetus of the onset.