A Prisoner of War
It would be difficult to say who were the most taken aback: the
Boches at the sight of a khaki-clad man who might or might not be
the foremost of a party of trench raiders, or Malcolm on finding
himself confronted by a score of fully-armed Germans.
The New Zealander's first impulse was to unsling his rifle. By use
of his magazine he might drive the Huns into the next bay, and,
profiting by the diversion, effect a smart retirement. The weapon
was useless; the piece of shell that had smashed the butt had jammed
the bolt action. The rifle was little better than a broken reed.
Malcolm turned and ran, but he had forgotten his sprained ankle.
Before he had taken a couple of strides his legs gave way under him,
and like a felled ox he collapsed upon the duck-boards.
Even as he lay prostrate his wits did not desert him. At all costs
the note entrusted to him by his captain must be destroyed. Although
ignorant of its contents, Malcolm felt assured that it was of great
importance, otherwise Captain Nicholson would not have sent anyone
across the open under a hail of bullets. With a deft movement the
trapped rifleman removed the paper from his pocket and conveyed it
to his mouth, and before the approaching Huns were upon him he had
swallowed the paper.
Ten seconds later he was in the grip of three hulking Saxons, who
promptly bound his wrists behind his back and propped him up against
the fire-step of the trench. The others, having satisfied themselves
that the prisoner was an isolated straggler, crowded round and
regarded him with undisguised interest.
Unable to understand a word Of German, Malcolm was at a loss to
follow their excited conversation. He managed to glean that there
was a discussion as to what the Huns would do with their prisoner.
One particularly villainous-looking Boche was apparently advising
that he should be shot outright, fingering the trigger of his rifle
as if in joyous anticipation of playing the joint rôle of judge and
executioner.
This amiable proposal was overruled by the others, and, after the
prisoner had been searched and his belongings confiscated, Malcolm
was marched along the trench, preceded and followed by men with
loaded rifles.
Almost every yard of the way was occupied by troops. The men
regarded the passing of the prisoner with slight interest. Their
attention was principally directed upon some distant object, as if
they were momentarily expecting an attack.
By one of those freaks of misfortune Rifleman Carr had completely
lost his bearings, and in his wanderings had made his way towards
the German trenches instead of towards the village of Messines. The
shells and bullets that had given him such a warm time had come from
his own lines, and in endeavouring to seek cover he had stumbled
upon a temporarily-unoccupied section of the original enemy
support-trenches. Even then he had no warning of his expensive
mistake until he literally walked into a trap, the bay being filled
with Saxons of the 209th Reserve Regiment.
Conducted into a deep and spacious dug-out, the prisoner was brought
before two German officers. One, a major, was short and corpulent.
Bald-headed, of florid complexion, and with abnormally-puffed
eyelids, magnified still more by a pair of heavy convex glasses, the
Saxon had Landsturmer written all over him. His companion was a
tall, cadaverous lieutenant of about twenty-five, narrow-chested,
and with protruding shoulder-blades. His hawkish features, upturned
moustache, and colourless skin gave him a truly Machiavellian
aspect. He wanted only a pointed beard and a ruff to complete the
living representation of a sixteenth-century portrait of one of the
ruffianly Margraves of the Palatinate.
"It's the long chap who will cause trouble," mentally decided
Malcolm. "The big-paunched fellow won't count. They're going to
question me, that's evident. If I try to bamboozle them there will
be trouble. By Jove! I'll give them a few choice New Zealand
catch-phrases, and see what happens."
At a sign from the Lieutenant the sergeant in charge of the escort
deftly removed the prisoner's identity disc and handed it to his
superior officer for inspection. The cadaverous one jotted down
something in a pocket-book, and exchanged a few words with his
confrere.
"Now listen," began the Lieutenant in broken English; "der truth we
must haf. If lies you tell it useless is. We vill haf you shot at
vonce. Tell me where you come from?"
"Ask me?" replied Malcolm promptly.
The Lieutenant frowned.
"I haf asked," he rejoined. "Where you come from--what position?"
"Cut it out!" ejaculated the lad.
His questioner bent over a map spread out on the table in front of
him. With a puzzled expression on his face he addressed the Major.
Malcolm distinctly heard the words "Cut it out" mentioned more than
once.
The lad smiled inwardly. The sight of the two Germans poring over a
map to find this non-existent locality of "Cut it out" tickled his
sense of humour.
Foiled in that direction, and attributing his discomfiture to the
fact that the military map was quite inadequate to present needs,
the Lieutenant wrote in his notebook again.
"How you arrive at our lines?" continued the inquisitor.
Malcolm thought fit to reply in a totally irrelevant string of Maori
phrases, concluding with "_Haeremai te kai_" (come to dinner) and a
decisive shake of his head.
By the time he had finished the Hun lieutenant's face was a study in
angry astonishment.
"It is evident," he remarked in German to his companion, "that the
prisoner is one of the Englander's mercenaries--from Portugal,
perhaps, or even from one of those outlandish and unheard-of nations
that have presumptuously declared war against us. The fact that his
identity disc proclaims him to be a New Zealander proves nothing,
except that the English are liars. I was always under the impression
that New Zealanders were black, tattooed savages. Since the prisoner
is worthless to us I would suggest that he be shot forthwith."
The Major shook his head.
"Do not be too hasty, von Rügen. Shooting prisoners would be all
very well if we were not in a vile plight ourselves. What would
happen to you and me if those Englanders repeated the success they
had over the 46th Westphalians? By some means the enemy found out
that von Tondhoven had executed the two sergeants who were caught
just beyond our entanglements--and what was the result? Not a single
officer of the 46th Regiment was given quarter. Here we are cut off
from our supplies. At any moment that infernal barrage might start,
and then the khakis would be swarming on top of us. No, no, von
Rügen, I am not at all satisfied with your suggestion, nor am I at
the prisoner's replies."
To Malcolm's mortification the Major held up a packet of documents
taken from the prisoner--his pay-book, a few letters and post cards
from far-off New Zealand, and a few snapshots of incidents on board
the transport _Awarua_.
Scribbling on a piece of paper, the Major handed the slip to the
prisoner. On it was written:
"How is you not understand English, since we haf writing on you
discovered?"
Malcolm studied the writing with feigned interest, puckering his
brow and frowning in assumed perplexity. By a pantomime display he
obtained a pencil from the Sergeant, and wrote rapidly and
distinctly "'Nuff sed" in reply.
A reference to two different Anglo-German dictionaries followed,
accompanied by many guttural ejaculations from the baffled Teutons.
"I will have the prisoner sent back to-night," decided the Major.
"We have evidently captured one of a new type. He will interest the
Intelligence officers---- Himmel! Is that the cursed barrage
commencing?"
A heavy shell landing in close proximity to the dug-out set the
concrete girders shaking. With a hurried gesture the Major dismissed
the prisoner, and, accompanied by the saturnine lieutenant, bolted
to a flight of steps leading to a still deeper refuge.
At a guttural order, the purport of which there was no mistaking,
Malcolm turned, and, surrounded by his guards, hurried out into the
trench.
There was good cause for haste. With the exception of a few
sentries, stationed in concreted, sand-bagged shelters, the trench
was deserted. The Saxon infantry had bolted to their dug-outs like
startled rabbits, as shell after shell screeched overhead and burst
amongst the labyrinth of trenches in the rear.
Speedily Rifleman Carr, now a prisoner of war, found himself in a
dug-out with half a dozen Huns for companionship.
For two reasons the Boches were favourably disposed towards their
captive. One was that they were Saxons, who, hating the Prussian and
all his works, were less imbued with the doctrine of hate towards
the enemies of the Fatherland. The other was the knowledge that, in
the event of a successful British infantry attack, the presence of a
well-treated prisoner would tend considerably to mitigate their
treatment when the tables were turned. Over and over again instances
have come to light of whole companies of Huns surrendering to their
late prisoners when the lads in khaki were swarming with fixed
bayonets over the parapets and into the enemy trenches.
Malcolm acted warily. Suspecting a trap, he refrained from verbal
conversation, although several of the Saxons could speak a few words
of English. He thanked them by signs when they provided him with a
portion of their own meagre fare and showed him their treasures in
the form of photographs of relatives and places in the Fatherland.
Meanwhile the bombardment continued without intermission. Although
the expected barrage had not put in an appearance, the British
"heavies" were lavishly showering shells upon the German position.
The ground was trembling continually, acrid-smelling smoke found its
way into the deepest dug-outs. Wherever a direct hit occurred it was
all U P with the luckless inmates of the crowded underground
shelters. Twenty or thirty feet of earth, reinforced with concrete
and sand-bags, was not proof against the terribly destructive
missiles.
From time to time, as shells landed unpleasantly near, the faces of
the Germans grew long. Malcolm, too, felt far from comfortable. The
possibility of being blown into infinitesimal fragments by British
shells was not what he had bargained for. He was quite willing, for
five shillings a day, to take his chance of being knocked out by the
Boches, but----
The lugubrious faces of the Huns had the effect of making the
rifleman pull himself together. At any rate, Fritz was not going to
see that he had cold feet. Moistening his lips, Malcolm began to
whistle.
In ordinary circumstances he could whistle well. Often while in
billets or standing by in a dug-out his chum would ask him to oblige
with a whistling solo; but now he was forced to confess that the
result was not exactly melody.
"Nicht mehr!" exclaimed a corporal peremptorily.
Although he did not know what the Saxon said, the accent and the
emphatic gesture were sufficient.
"He means 'shut up'," soliloquized Malcolm. "That's a nasty one. I
suppose it gets on his nerves. Well, I'm not surprised. I fancy I
was a trifle flat and wobbly."
A few seconds later the dug-out shook violently. Some of the men who
were standing upright were thrown forward, gear was hurled from the
racks and shelves, while the concrete walls cracked from top to
bottom, bulging ominously under the pressure of earth behind them.
"A near one!" decided Malcolm. "Another five yards this way and it
would have been all up."
A hoarse voice shouted through the tunnel that formed the entrance.
Without showing any tendency to bestir themselves the men looked at
each Other enquiringly. Evidently they were wanted outside, but were
debating as to who should make the first move. The carrying out of
orders promptly--generally the German soldiers' chief concern--was
noticeably absent. It was not until the command had been given three
times that the men reluctantly left their shelter.
Left to himself, Malcolm discussed the situation. Now was his
opportunity to slip out at the heels of the Hun and trust to luck in
the open. If he escaped being blown up, he might be able to go over
the parapet unobserved and make his way towards the British lines.
While the bombardment was in progress there was little chance of the
Huns manning the trenches. On the other hand, prudence counselled
him to stay where he was. Should the infantry attack develop and be
successful his rescue would be merely a question of time. Then again
came the maddening thought that if the British troops did not
capture the position he would remain a prisoner in the hands of the
enemy.
"I'll chance it and go outside," he decided.
Without, the air was thick with smoke. At the most, Malcolm could
see but twenty to twenty-five paces to right and left. In front was
the parados, the ground covered with a yellowish dust from the
high-explosive shells. At the entrance to the dugout into which he
had been taken to be questioned, a dozen men were vigorously plying
pick and shovel, the while urged to still greater efforts by a
gigantic sergeant.
A 12-inch shell had fallen on top of the shelter. Concrete earth and
sand-bags were not proof against the terrific impact, despite the
fact that thirty feet of solid material formed the roof of the
subterranean retreat.
"They might just as well save themselves the job," thought Malcolm.
"Mephistopheles and the Fat Boy won't be worth troubling about, I
guess. It was a jolly good thing that they didn't invite me to stay
and have dinner with them. Now for it!"
Making for a gap in the parapet the lad began to crawl up the steps
of disentangled sand-bags and trench-props. The British guns were
evidently lifting. Although the air was "stiff" with screeching
shells, the missiles were flying high overhead and bursting far
behind the German first-line trench. Machine-gun and rifle-firing
had ceased. Beyond the few men engaged in digging out their
unfortunate officers the normally lightly-held front trench was
practically deserted.
"I'll win through yet!" exclaimed the lad, voicing his thoughts
aloud.
The next instant a lurid flash leapt up from the ground almost in
front of him. Hurled violently backward by a terrific blast again,
Malcolm had a fleeting vision of the ground rising up to meet him,
and then everything became a blank.