When Adolf Hans Pumpenheim, farmer, was brought up for trial as a
civil offender it is not too much to say that a shudder passed through
the members of the Summary Court, which consisted of Major Blenkin
and myself. This emotion was due not so much to the unprepossessing
appearance of the prisoner as to the enormity of his offence.
He was charged upon two different counts: firstly, with being in
illegal possession of two tins of corned beef and one cake of soap,
the property of the British Government; secondly, with having offered
a bribe of fifty marks to Second-Lieutenant Robinson in order to
escape arrest.
The charge was translated to the prisoner by an interpreter, who in
his turn appeared to feel the gravity of the occasion. He alluded with
bated breath to the topic of corned beef; he slid, so to speak, over
the soap; only in the mention of the fifty marks did his voice ring
out confidently, as though righteous indignation had overcome the
baser sentiment of pity. Pumpenheim listened in silence. When invited
to plead Guilty or Not Guilty he made no reply.
Judges are only human. I cannot state that his innocence was presumed.
The evidence was brief. A corporal of foot police, after examining the
articles produced in court, pronounced them to be indubitably two tins
of corned beef and a cake of soap, and further declared that he had
found them in the prisoner's house, no troops being at that time
billeted upon him. Second-Lieutenant Robinson deposed that upon his
arrival the prisoner had thrust a fifty-mark note into his hand,
accompanying the action with gestures and grimaces suggestive of
bribery.
Here we all looked at Pumpenheim. His features afforded no sign of
intelligence or even of interest. For his particular benefit the
evidence was translated. He was further invited to question the
witnesses or to call testimony on his own behalf. To these offers he
responded with a shrug indicating that he waived all rights.
The court was therefore cleared, and Major Blenkin and I proceeded
to consider our verdict, with no other company than the dozen empty
stools which had faced us during the trial, and which represented the
inalienable right of the civil population to attend the court if they
pleased. Custom forbids me to divulge the finding or the sentence.
It will suffice to say that justice was tempered with mercy. We were
about to readmit the prisoner, his escort and the imaginary public
when my partner in the suppression of crime was struck by an idea.
"Look here," asked Major Blenkin, "what about the moral aspect?"
I hesitate to argue with Blenkin about moral questions, on which he
speaks with authority. I therefore awaited his next remark.
"The moral aspect," Blenkin went on, "is most important. I intend to
impress this fellow. I shall tell him that if he had been a French
peasant and had offered a bribe to a German officer he would have been
put against a wall and shot. Do you agree?"