A BARBED WIRE PRISON
A short distance out in No Man’s Land from the German lines, Phil’s
captors stopped long enough to put on their outer clothing and thus
cover the comical evidence of their humiliation by the young American
who subsequently became their prisoner only through a surprise rear
attack. Doubtless they had not stopped sooner for this purpose because
they feared the possible consequences of any delay, with a swarm of
Yankee “devil dogs” scouring the timber for boches.
Phil was rushed to the rear where he was placed under guard with a dozen
other American prisoners who had been brought in from various quarters.
Half an hour later, it appearing that no more prisoners would be brought
in that night, they were hustled back several miles over a rough road to
a physically wrecked village, deserted by its civilian population, and
there corralled in a barbed wire inclosure already occupied by more than
200 captured Americans and Frenchmen. There each prisoner was stripped
of his helmet and every other superfluous article of use or treasure.
It was a wretched place, from all dim appearances in the darkness. There
was not a glimmer of light within the barbed wire prison, and only a few
outside. The patrol of guards that paced about outside the inclosure
were ghostly looking shadows against the various background of empty
darkness or debris of shell-shattered buildings. The other prisoners did
not pay much attention as the newly captured Marines were driven into
the place like so many cattle. This apparent indifference doubtless was
due to the darkness of the night and the weariness of all the prisoners.
The young Marine sergeant at once sought a resting place for the night.
He knew better than to expect any courtesies in the way of food, water,
or couch for the night from men of the brutal type that characterized
most of the boches with whom he had come into contact thus far.
Phil was tired and fell asleep “as soon as his head touched his pillow,”
which consisted of his arm curled up under his head. Later when this
became uncomfortable for the “pillow,” he rolled over in his sleep, and
his only headrest was the uncushioned earth.
The boy awoke at sunup and looked around him with a kind of eager
curiosity, rendered possible by his refreshed condition following a very
good night’s rest. A soldier does not need a hair mattress to insure
slumber in comfort. Sometimes he would be thankful for a dry six feet of
earth on which to rest his weary form. Phil congratulated himself as he
lay down to sleep on his first night as a prisoner of war not only that
he had a dry resting place in the open air, but that the weather was
warm.
About two-thirds of the prisoners in this inclosure were French, as
nearly as Phil was able to estimate after the dawn of day rendered it
possible for him to get a clear view of his surroundings. The invading
army had selected what appeared to have been a small village park and
fenced it in with barbed wire stapled to the rows of trees that marked
the marginal border line. The young Marine “non-com” soon picked out the
“colony” of Americans in the place and discovered among them two young
fellows, Dan Fentress and Emmet Harding, whose acquaintance he had made
at the last billeting place before the Yanks were given the Belleau and
Bouresches sector. The three were soon engaged in an animated
conversation on the events of the last few days. All expressed
themselves as deeply disappointed because it appeared probable that they
had struck their last blow for world freedom and must in all probability
labor as slaves for the mailed-fisted kaiserites until their more
fortunate fellow crusaders drove home the last blow which would make the
entire Hohenzollern host throw up their hands and yell “Kamerad!”
“What makes me sorest in my hardest-to-hurt spot,” said Dan, grinding
his teeth with impotent rage, “is the fact that I can’t go back home and
say that I know I killed a Hun. Not that I wanted to brag about it. I
might not even tell anybody about it if I had shot holes through a dozen
slayers of women and children. But I’d just like to be able to say I’d
made a record to be proud of and—and—then—keep the secret to myself if I
liked modesty as well as I’d like real American roast beef in a Hun
prison camp.”
“Maybe you’re just playing modest now,” suggested Emmet Harding with a
shrewd smile. “Maybe you’ve actually wiped out a score of Huns and are
just practicing, to feel how it seems to deny you’re a hero.”
“No, I don’t believe he’s doing any such thing,” interposed Phil almost
eagerly. “At least I hope he isn’t, for I want company right now. I’m in
the same boat he says he’s in. I don’t know that I’ve even smashed a
cootie on a Hun’s hide, although I had a chance to shoot down half a
dozen apostles of frightfulness like so many ten-pins, but didn’t do it;
and that, very probably, is the reason I’m here now.”
“What!” exclaimed Dan in tones of contemptuous astonishment. “What sort
of animal are you—a pacifist? You’d better keep that story under your
hat when you get back home.”
“I don’t know whether I’ll be able to,” Phil returned with a forlorn
smile. “You see, there’s no person I’d rather tell a joke on than
myself, and this is surely a joke on me. At first it looked like a joke
on the Huns—”
“Whoever heard of turning the biggest and most bloody war this world has
ever known into humor?” Dan interrupted almost angrily.
“I respect your impatience under the circumstances,” Phil returned
quietly. “But hear me through before you judge me too harshly. I’m the
sort of fellow that wouldn’t be guilty of a Lusitania sinking or of a
violation of a Belgian treaty. Neither would I shoot enemy soldiers
after they’ve thrown up their hands.”
“Did those six Huns throw up their hands?”
“Yes.”
“And you had a gun pointed at them?”
“Yes.”
“And did they yell ‘Kamerad?’”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You’re a fool. But where’s the humor in that situation?”
“The first joke, I suppose, came when I ordered them to strip off their
uniforms one after another and had them standing before me in brogans,
underwear and steel helmets.”
“A comical sight, indeed,” declared Phil’s critic sarcastically. “But
what did you do that for?”
“To be sure they had no firearms on their person,” interposed Emmet.
“Well, what did you mean to do after that?” inquired Dan as Phil nodded
assent to Emmet’s interpretation.
“March them back to our lines.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“You’re admitting by your line of questions now that there may have been
a little intelligence in my method,” Phil observed as a prelude to his
answer.
“Intelligent enough if you had succeeded,” retorted Dan grimly.
“I get your argument and am inclined to agree with you in a way,” the
severely grilled Marine returned. “Well, I’m going to tell you why I
didn’t take my prisoners back to our lines in triumph. A 200-pound boche
sneaked up from behind and jumped on my back and—”
“That’s enough; you got what was coming to you,” declared Dan with a
finality of opinion that admitted of no further discussion. “If you care
for my judgment in the matter, I’ll say it’s up to you to use your wits
as you never used ’em before and whip the kaiser internally in order to
retrieve your honor. Get me? You’re on the inside now and you must do
something to help win the war from this side of the boche lines. But
here’s the call to breakfast and some guards coming this way. Methinks
they’re curious to know what’s the nature of this warm discussion of
ours. Everybody shut up and look hungry—for something a dog can hardly
eat.”