HE IS MADE A PRISONER AND MAKES A NEW FRIEND
It was just another German mistake in diplomacy or strategy or
browbeatery, or whatever you may call it. Tom had been rescued for the
information which he might give, and he gave none. It was not that he
was so clever, either. A fellow like Frenchy could have squeezed a whole
lot out of him without his realizing it, but Captain von
Something-or-other didn't know how to do it. And having failed, perhaps
it was to his credit that he did not have Tom thrown back into the
ocean.
Tom would have liked to know whether the boat was still awash or
completely submerged. Above all, he was anxious to know what they
intended to do with him. The fact that the boat did not pitch or roll at
all made him think that it must be far below these surface disturbances,
but he did not dare to ask.
When his clothes were returned to him he was given a piece of rye bread
and a cup of coffee, which greatly refreshed him, and he lay in one of
the bunks along the long aisle watching two of the Germans who were
playing cribbage. Once the commander came through like a conductor and
as he passed Tom he said, "Vell, you haf' more room soon."
He said it in his usual gruff, decisive tone, but Tom felt that he had
intended to be agreeable and he wondered what he meant.
After a while he fell asleep and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.
When he awoke there was no one about, but he heard voices outside,
talking in German. Presently a soldier in one of the familiar German
helmets came in and beckoned to him.
Tom followed him up the iron ladder, out through the hatch and down
another little ladder which was leaning against the outside of the
conning tower. The deck was quite free of the water and already it was
cluttered with tanks and cases ready to be stowed aboard. On either
side, ranged sideways in a long row, as if they were ready to start on a
race, were other U-boats, as many as thirty Tom thought, their low decks
the scene of much activity.
On the wharf was a long line of hand trucks, each bearing what he
supposed to be a torpedo, and these looked exactly like miniature
submarines, minus the conning tower.
These things he saw in one hurried, bewildered glance, for he was
allowed no opportunity for observation. Scarcely had he stepped off the
deck when two lame soldiers took him in hand. Another soldier, who was
not lame, stepped in front of him and he was directed by an officer who
managed the affair and spoke very good English, to keep his eyes upon
the little spire of that soldier's helmet. What he saw thereafter, he
saw only through the corners of his eyes, and these things consisted
chiefly of German signs on buildings.
In this formation, with Tom's eyes fixed upon the little shiny spire
before him, a lame soldier limping on either side and an officer in
attendance, they marched to a stone building not far distant. Here he
was ushered into a room where two men in sailor suits and three or four
in oilskins sat about on benches. Two crippled soldiers guarded the door
and another, who stood by an inner door, wore a bandage about his head.
[Illustration: TOM WAS DIRECTED TO KEEP HIS EYES UPON THE SOLDIER'S
HELMET.]
"Blimy, I thought I was 'avin' me eyes tested," said one of the
sailors. "It's a bloomin' wonder they don't clap a pair o' blinders on
yer and be done with it!"
Tom had not expected to hear any English spoken and it had never sounded
so good to him before. The sailor did not seem to be at all awed by the
grim surroundings, and his freedom from restraint was comforting to Tom
who had felt very apprehensive. He was soon to learn that the most
conspicuous and attractive thing about a British sailor or soldier is
his disposition to take things as he finds them and not to be greatly
concerned about anything.
"Hi, Fritzie," he added, addressing one of the soldiers, "are we for
Wittenberg or carn't yer s'y?" The guard paid no attention.
"It's no difference," said one of the men in oilskins.
"It's a bloomin' lot o' difference," said the sailor, "whether you're
civilian or not, I can jolly well tell you! It's a short course in
Wittenberg--there and Slopsgotten, or wotever they calls it. And the
Spanish Ambassador, 'e calls to inquire arfter yer 'ealth every d'y. Hi
there, Fritzie, 'ave we long to wite, old pal?"
As there seemed to be no objection to this freedom of speech, Tom
ventured a question.
"Is this Germany?"
"Germany? No, it's the Cannibal Islands," said the sailor, and everyone
except the guard laughed.
"You're not from Blighty,[3] eh?" the sailor asked.
"I'm American," said Tom; "I was ship's boy on a transport and I fell
off and a U-boat picked me up."
"You're in Willlamshaven," the sailor told him, expressing no surprise
at his experience.
"He's civilian," said one of the men in oilskins. "He's safe."
"Mybe, and mybe not," said the sailor; "'ow old are yer?"
"Seventeen," said Tom.
"Transports aren't civilian," said the sailor.
"Ship's boys are not naval in American service."
"It's the ige of yer as does it," the sailor answered. "I'll wiger you
me first package from 'ome 'e goes to Slopsgotten."
"What is Slopsgotten?" Tom asked.
"It's the ship's boys' 'eaven."
"I guess it ain't so good," said the man.
"It's a grite big rice track," said the sailor. "Me cousin was there
afore the Yanks came in. Mr. Gerard 'e got him exchinged. They got a
'ole army o' Yanks there now--all civilian."
"Is it a prison camp?" said Tom.
"A bloomin' sailors' 'ome."
"Were you captured?" Tom asked.
"We're off a bloomin' mine l'yer," the sailor answered, including his
companion; "nabbed in the channel--'i, Freddie?"
"An' I 'ad tickets in me pocket to tike me girl to the pl'y in
Piccadilly that night. Mybe she's witing yet," responded Freddie.
"Let 'er wite. Hi, Fritzie, we're a-goin' to add four shillins' to the
bloomin' indemnity, to p'y fer the tickets!"
Further conversation with this blithesome pair elicited the information
that they had been taken by a German destroyer while in a small boat in
the act of mine inspecting, and that the men in oilskins (the one who
had spoken being an American) were captives taken from a sunken British
trawler.
One by one these prisoners were passed into an inner room where each
remained for about five minutes. When the sailor came out, he held up a
brass tag which had been fastened with a piece of wire to his
buttonhole.
"I got me bloomin' iron cross," he said, "and I'm a-goin' to mike me
'ome in Slops! Kipe yer fingers crossed w'en yer go in there, Yank; tike
me advice!"
"I hope I go there too if you're going," said Tom, "'cause you make it
seem not so bad, kind of, bein' a prisoner."
"Hi, Fritzie!" the sailor called. "I got me reward for 'eroism!"
But apparently the German soldier could not appreciate these frivolous
references to the sacred iron cross, for he glowered upon the young
Englishman, and turned away with a black look.
"Hi, Fritzie, cawrn't yer tike a joke?" the sailor persisted.
Tom thought it must be much better fun to be an English soldier than a
German soldier. And he thought this good-natured prisoner would be able
to hold his own even against a great Yankee drive--of jollying.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] England.