MR. BOACONSTRICTOR
“Something we can hardly swallow” proved to be a true characterization
of the meat-and-vegetable stew that was served to the prisoners in tin
bowls, which looked as if they had seen service in the Franco-Prussian
war. The meat was in small bits, which were few in number and so tough
or gristly as to be hardly edible. The vegetables were principally
potatoes and onions. This combination would have been fairly well
calculated to sustain life if it had been well seasoned and if it had
not tasted and smelled as if it had been warmed several times over a low
fire insufficient to bring it to the boiling point. A piece of stale
brown bread was served to each prisoner with this stew.
In order to prevent any of the prisoners from getting double portions of
this mess, the men were lined up next to the barbed wire fence, along
which several boys and men, the latter too old for military service,
passed, carrying kettles of stew and buckets of sliced bread and handing
out dippersful and slices through the fence to the hungry Americans and
Frenchmen.
Meanwhile two guards, also of the superannuated post-military class
entered the inclosure and advanced to the spot where the animated
discussion was going on among the three comrade Marines. The latter, as
has been observed, noticed their approach and so camouflaged their
further words and actions that the evident suspicion of the guards was
effectually dispelled.
There was a good deal of comment among the prisoners concerning the
quality of food served to them and other conveniences—or
inconveniences—with which they were provided. The general opinion among
them was that the enemy was approaching dangerously near the limit of
their resources, which might mean an ending of the war in the not far
distant future. Indeed, Phil was sure that he could detect signs of
spitefulness in the manner and actions of both commissioned officers and
non-coms toward the prisoners, and he was equally certain that the
reason for this spitefulness was an undisguisable consciousness of their
shortage of resources and equipment.
“This war isn’t going to last very much longer,” Phil remarked to his
two friends as he forced down the last spoonful of stew. He was
ravenously hungry, having had nothing to eat since early the preceding
day, and in spite of the fact that the food served was most unpalatable,
he deemed it wise not to waste any of the scanty portion served to him.
“That’s what lots of soldiers are saying principally because of stories
of experiences similar to ours that find their way across No Man’s
Land,” said Dan. “But there’s one thing that gets me in this connection
more than anything else, and that is that the more defeat you cram down
these boches’ throats, the more arrogant and overbearing they become.
Just look at that human boaconstrictor strutting around as if utterly
unconscious of the fact that he ought to be going to sleep.”
“I don’t get you,” said Emmet with an expression of challenging
curiosity. “If we were campaigning with the British among the pyramids
of Egypt, it might be appropriate for you to talk like a Sphinx.”
“I get him,” announced Phil. “He means that boche officer has such an
ungainly girth that he looks like a boa that has swallowed a pig and
ought to be taking an after-dinner nap. But I have something to add to
Dan’s observation. That fellow is one of the six kaiserites whom I
forced to strip to their underclothes and who turned the tables on me
and recaptured their pants et cetera, and brought me here as an honored
guest.”
“Better keep out of his sight then,” Emmet advised. “If he sets eyes on
you, he’s likely not to rest until he gets his revenge. And you know
what revenge means in wartime. He’ll probably find some way of blowin’
you to atoms to feed the molecules.”
“You do him too great a chemical honor by presenting the matter in such
light,” Phil objected, screwing up one side of his face to indicate his
skepticism. “He looks to me like an ordinary butcher, and I don’t think
he’d attempt to do anything more than make mincemeat of me.”
“Have it your own way,” Emmet returned with a shrug. “But look out for
him at any event. He seems to be recognized as having a good deal of
authority around here.”
“He’s only a second lieutenant,” was Phil’s reminder.
“That doesn’t make any difference,” Emmet insisted. “This fellow’s in
right with the higher-ups. It may be easier, you know, to use an officer
of low rank for all sorts of jobs than one of higher rank. He can work
more quietly—won’t attract so much attention sometimes.”
Phil decided to take his companion’s advice, and keep as much in the
background as possible in order that “Mr. Boaconstrictor” might not fall
into revengeful temptation at the sight of him. And before long he was
congratulating himself on this decision. Half an hour after the early
“feed,” as he was pleased to designate the morning stew and bread, the
order was given for everybody in the inclosure to get ready to move.
This was succeeded by another order ten minutes later for all to file
out through the gate and follow two soldiers who would lead the way.
Mechanically Phil glanced toward the two soldiers referred to by the
prison guard who made the announcement. Dan and Emmet, who were still
near him, did likewise.
“It seems impossible for you to shake your friend, Boche Boa,” observed
Emmet. “He’s going to be one of the leaders of the grand march to some
munitions factory, where, undoubtedly, we will be set at work making big
shells to shoot at the Allies.”
“Let’s hang back and fall in at the rear end of the line of march,” Dan
suggested. “He may have forgotten all about his experience with Phil,
and the sight of the fellow who dragged his dignity in the dust may make
him show his fangs.”
This seemed to be good advice, and was followed as nearly as possible,
although they were forced into the line several paces ahead of the rear
end by the guards who herded the prisoners out of the inclosure without
regard for the wish or convenience of anybody.