HE MAKES A HIGH RESOLVE AND LOSES A FAVORITE WORD
Miss Margaret Ellison, the stenographer in the Temple Camp office, had
once pronounced judgment on Tom. It was that if he made up his mind to
do a thing he would do it. There was something about his big mouth and
his dogged scowl which made this prophecy seem likely of fulfilment.
And now, silently, he threw his challenge down before Fate, before
Germany, before barbed wire entanglements--before everything and
everybody. He did not know whether they ever paroled ordinary prisoners,
but he hoped they would not parole him, because then he would be bound
by honor. And he did not want to be bound by honor. He kept his hand in
his pocket, grasping his precious button, and it was well that the
German officials did not know what was in his mind.
"I ain't goin' to be cheated out of it now," he said to himself; "I
don't care what."
All day long they journeyed in the box car, but Tom could see nothing of
Germany save an occasional glimpse now and then when the sliding door
was opened at the stations, usually to admit more prisoners. Whatever
became of the men from the British trawler he never knew, but his
jack-tar companions were with him still and helped to keep up his
spirits. He never knew them by any other names than Freddie and
Tennert--the first name of one and the last name of the other--but so
great was his liking for them that it included the whole of sturdy,
plodding, indomitable old England into the bargain. They never talked
patriotism, and seemed to regard the war merely as a sort of a job that
had to be done--just like any other job. Early in the day before the car
filled up, Tom talked a good deal with them and as there was no guard
inside, the conversation was free.
"When you said, 'Shh'," said Tom at one time, "I knew what you was
thinkin' about. I was never in a war," he added innocently, "so I don't
know much about it. But if I was sent to jail for--say, for stealing--I
wouldn't think I had a right to escape."
"You'd be a pretty honorable sort of a thief," said Freddie.
"But, anyway," said Tom, "I was going to ask you about escapin' from a
military prison. That ain't dishonorable, is it?"
"No, strike me blind, it ain't! But it's jolly 'ard!" said Tennert.
"It's fer them to keep yer and fer you to grease off, if you can," said
Freddie. "If you give your parole, it's like a treaty----"
"A bloomin' scrap o' piper," interrupted Tennert. "They wouldn't put you
on yer honor because they don't know what honor is. It ain't in
Fritzie's old dictionary."
Tom was glad to think of it in this way. _It's for them to keep you and
for you to grease off_ (which evidently meant "get away"). He had great
respect for the opinions of these two Britishers and his mind dwelt upon
this only hope even before he had so much as a glimpse of his prison.
He meant to fight with the American forces, in spite of Fate and in
spite of Germany. Germany had armed guards and barbed wire
entanglements. Tom, on his side, had an iron button, a big mouth, a
look of dogged determination, a sense of having been grossly cheated
after he had made a considerable investment in time and a good deal of
scout pluck and Yankee resource. The only thing that had stood in the
way was the question of honor, and that was now settled on the high
authority of the British navy! Who but sturdy old John Bull had come
forward when Belgium was being violated? And now a couple of John Bull's
jack-tars had told him that it was for Germany to keep him and for him
to get away if he could.
He was on the point of telling them of his double reason for wanting to
escape; that he had to fight for two--himself and his brother. Then he
thought he wouldn't for fear they might not understand.
But he made up his mind that henceforth all his efforts and activities
should be of double strength--to make up. He would think twice as hard,
work twice as hard, fight twice as hard. Above all he would try twice as
hard as he otherwise would have done, to get out of this predicament and
get to the battlefront. He was glad of his scout training which he
thought might help him a great deal now. And he would put every quality
he had to the supreme test.
"Do you believe," he asked, after a considerable silence, "that a feller
can do more, kind of, if he's doing his own work and--I mean if he
thinks he's got to do two people's work--for a special reason?"
Freddie did not seem quite to "get" him, but Tennert answered readily,
"You jolly well can! Look at Kippers wot cime 'ome fer orspital
treatment arfter Verdoon. 'E lived in Chelsea. 'Is pal got sniped an'
Fritzie took 'is shoes. They're awrful short o' shoes. Kippers, 'e s'ys,
'I'll not l'y down me rifle till I plunk[4] a German and get 'is shoes.'
Two d'ys arfter 'e comes crawlin' back through No Man's Land and the
color sergeant arsks 'im did 'e carry out 'is resolootion. 'Yes,' s'ys
'e, 'but blimy, I 'ad to plunk seven Germans before I could get a pair
o' clods to fit me.' 'E was usin' 'is pal's strength too besides 'is
own. Any Tommy'll tell yer a lad wot's dyin' on the field can leave 'is
fightin' spunk to anyone 'e pleases."
Tom stared open-eyed. He found it easy to believe this superstition of
Tommy Atkins'. And he made up his mind anew that he would square matters
with Uncle Sam by doing the work of two.
* * * * *
In the afternoon this pleasant chatting was made impossible by the
numbers of military prisoners who were herded into the rough box car.
They had come far enough south to be abreast of Belgium now and there
must lately have been a successful German raid along the Flanders front,
for both British and Belgian soldiers were driven aboard by the score.
All of the British seemed exactly like Tennert and Freddie, cheerful,
philosophical, chatting about Fritzie and the war as if the whole thing
were a huge cricket game. Some of these were taken off farther down the
line, to be sent to different camps, Tom supposed.
At last, after an all day's ride, they reached their destination. But
alas, there was no such place as Slopsgotten! Tom was sorry for this for
he liked the name. It sounded funny when his English friends said it.
Schlaabgaurtn, was the way he read it on the railroad station. He felt
disappointed and aggrieved. He was by no means sure of the letters, and
pronunciation was out of the question. He liked Slopsgotten. In
Tennert's mouth he had almost come to love it.
It was the only thing about Germany that he liked, and now he had to
give it up!
Slopsgotten!
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Kill.