PRISONERS OF THE HUNS
A short march took the moving picture boys to the guardhouse, where
they were delivered over to the officer in charge, and soon afterward,
after some further questioning, they were roughly pushed into a narrow
and not overclean cell, where they were left to their own devices.
“Well, we’re in an awful mess now,” said Joe dolefully. “The worst has
happened, and we’re hard and fast in the hands of the Huns.”
“Yes, and we’re not only prisoners, but mighty hungry prisoners,” said
Blake. “I wonder if we can’t persuade that sentry outside to bring us
grub of some kind? I’m going to try, anyway.”
The door to their cell was heavily barred, and outside a sentry, with
his clumsy German rifle over his shoulder, paced slowly to and fro.
On his next round, as he was passing their door, Blake caught his
attention, and pointed meaningly toward his mouth. But the man only
scowled at him, and with a muttered exclamation, continued on his
measured beat.
“Not much chance there, I guess,” said Blake. “Suppose we’ll have to
get along as best we can until morning.”
“I’m going to sleep, then,” declared Joe. “You know, there’s an old
saying that he who sleeps, dines.”
“All right, then,” grinned Blake, “here goes for a swell dinner,” and
he stretched his sinewy length on the floor. Joe lay down beside him,
and both boys slept the sleep of exhaustion until they were awakened
by a harsh voice speaking in German. It proved to be that of Kopf,
the officer who had effected their capture. When he saw the boys were
awake, he switched to English, and addressed them.
“Get up, you!” he commanded, “there is a journey before you. Your fate
has not yet been decided, but in the meantime you will be put to work
and made to do something useful.”
He made a gesture, and the boys, not even taking the trouble to answer
him, followed him as he turned and stalked out. He led them to another
room, and from there, after a scanty breakfast that did little toward
allaying their ravenous hunger, they were taken to the entrance, where
a big motor truck was standing. They were commanded to get into this,
which they did, and found it already occupied by some half dozen
French prisoners. After they had got in, two Germans, armed with guns
and revolvers, entered, and occupied the ends of the two parallel seats
with which the truck was equipped.
The guards had hardly taken their places, when the truck started with a
jerk, and the boys were on their way to their unknown destination.
The Americans returned the curious stares of their fellow prisoners,
and after a while Blake struck up a conversation with one of the poilus
who could speak broken English. From him the boys learned that they
were being transported to a farm, probably some distance from the
battle lines, where they would be set to work at ploughing, or any of
the work that is always to be done around a farm.
“Nice prospect, isn’t it?” said Blake, glancing quizzically at his
friend. “Plenty of work, and no wages, is what we’re going to get.”
“I’ll bet we don’t get it for very long,” said Joe, in a low tone.
“Before very long, they’ll have a couple of dead Germans lying around
the place, and we’ll be far away from there, or else you and I are
losing our grip.”
“Well, something a little out of the ordinary may happen, I suppose,”
grinned Blake, and the grin did not hide a certain steely glint in his
eyes. “I think we’ll be a lot better off, though, than if we had been
sent to a regular prison camp, anyway.”
The truck bumped and jolted along hour after hour, but stopped about
noon time, and each of the prisoners was given a chunk of coarse black
bread, and some water from a bottle carried by one of the guards.
“If they feed us this way all the time, we’ll have to make a get-away
pretty quick, or we won’t have strength enough left to do anything,”
whispered Joe to Blake. “This grub reminds me of the good old U. S.
Army chow, it’s so different.”
The truck resumed its tedious journey, and finally, just before dark,
deposited its load of weary prisoners in front of a large farmhouse.
They were taken to the kitchen, where, for the first time since the
boys had been on German territory, they ate a satisfying meal. A stolid
German farmer and his family watched the prisoners while they ate, and
exchanged guttural comments among themselves. All the time the boys
were estimating their chances of escape, but there were always two
heavily-armed guards in the room, and they had little doubt that there
were many more in the immediate neighborhood. However, they did not
despair, and resolved to keep keenly on the alert for any opportunity
that might offer.
That night the prisoners were quartered in the loft of a big barn, and
the next morning were set to work on the farm. It went sadly against
the grain, but the two friends knew that their only chance of escape
lay in doing what they were told for the present, and being ready for
any chance of escape when it might come along.
For three days they went through the monotonous routine, with nothing
to distinguish one day from another. But on the evening of the fourth
day, when they were on their way to the farmhouse for supper, they saw
an automobile stop in front of it, from which three German officers
emerged. The boys were near enough to get a good view of their faces,
and the countenance of one seemed familiar to both of them.
“I’ve seen that man before!” exclaimed Joe. “Do you recognize him,
Blake?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him somewhere recently,” said Blake. “Let’s see--why,
that’s the Boche that shoved a gun in our faces when our aeroplane
landed, and got our films!” said Blake, with suppressed excitement.
“Right you are,” replied Joe excitedly. “I wonder if, by any earthly
chance, he has still got the films?”
“That’s hard to say,” returned Blake. “But he had a big handbag with
him, and there’s just a chance that he might have them. I don’t just
see where it’s going to help us much if he has, though.”
“Well, if we could get hold of them, we could destroy them, even if we
couldn’t get back with them,” said Joe. “Anyway, it’s up to us to find
out some way if he’s got them with him.”
“One of the guards can speak a little English,” said Blake. “I was
kidding him along yesterday, and he got so he could talk to me without
looking as though he intended to run his bayonet through me the next
second. Maybe I can get a little information out of him.”
“Go to it, old fellow,” said Joe, “see if you can’t pump him while
we’re eating dinner.”
“I’ll try,” promised Blake; and the two entered the kitchen together.