At all events, his humor has the dry quality which connotes an even
mind and temper, as the following incident will show. In the earlier
days of the war, before the opposing armies in the West had burrowed
into the soil and some freedom of movement was still possible, a patrol
of three British soldiers under a sergeant were prowling abroad one
night. Within disputed territory they espied a lighted window in a
lonely farmhouse which they knew had been deserted by its owners. They
approached it stealthily. The house was surrounded without challenge,
and having posted his men at points which commanded the exits the
sergeant crept forward to reconnoitre. Music and sounds of revelry were
audible within, and the sergeant had no difficulty in discovering the
presence of four German soldiers in the farmer's best sitting-room.
The cellar had been looted, the piano commandeered, and four Teutonic
voices were upraised in melody.
The sergeant beckoned to the waiting figures outside, and four large
but softly-treading men tiptoed delicately to the scene of the
carousal. At a given signal the door was flung open and four rifles
were levelled.
"Hands up!"
A chorus of "_Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles_" was interrupted a
shade abruptly, and four pairs of arms shot up into the air. The Boche
does not shine in an emergency.
With a gesture the sergeant marshalled the captives against the wall,
where they stood in a row, blinking and crestfallen. Their weapons
having been collected and removed, they were allowed to put their hands
down, and their captors regarded them quizzically.
"Any of you blokes speak English?" queried the sergeant, genially.
A smile of modest pride momentarily illumined one of the four wooden
faces.
"_Ja_, I spik leedle English," ventured its owner.
"In-_deed_!" was the rejoinder; "and where did _you_ learn it--in the
Tottenham Court Road?"
The linguist simpered deprecatingly, with evident gratification over
the good impression which he appeared to be making. It takes a lot to
upset the complacence of the Boche.
"Been havin' a sing-song?" continued the sergeant, encouragingly.
The other nodded. "Der Shermans vas always der beoble of singing," he
observed, in faintly patronizing tones.
"Ho, _are_ they?" said the sergeant. "Then suppose you start in and
sing us 'Rule Britannia' for a bit. Give us a tune, Bill."
Bill propped his rifle against the wall, and sat himself solemnly at
the open piano. He was not a great performer, but rose to the occasion
and produced a rendering of the familiar tune which was at least
recognizable.
"Now, then," said the sergeant, warming to his work, "not bein' a
blinkin' German I don't 'appen to be no singer, but just you listen,
and if you don't know the words, say 'em after me. '_When Brit-ain
fir-ir-ir-ir-irst at----_'"
The musical evening was a great success, said the member of the party
from whom the present writer had the story. "We kept 'em there for four
hours, and by the time we'd finished with 'em they could sing it a fair
treat. And we didn't spare 'em the encores neither. Course, they wasn't
singin' _all_ the time, 'cos we spent some of it in moppin' up the
liquor and the food and the cigars they hadn't finished. But I reckon
they did all the singin' they wanted. Then we fell 'em into line and
drove 'em home as prisoners. They _asked_ for it, you see!"