CHAPTER XXII
A Prisoner of War
It would be difficult to say who were the most taken aback: theBoches at the sight of a khaki-clad man who might or might not bethe foremost of a party of trench raiders, or Malcolm on findinghimself confronted by a score of fully-armed Germans.
The New Zealander's first impulse was to unsling his rifle. By useof his magazine he might drive the Huns into the next bay, and,profiting by the diversion, effect a smart retirement. The weaponwas useless; the piece of shell that had smashed the butt had jammedthe 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 coststhe note entrusted to him by his captain must be destroyed. Althoughignorant of its contents, Malcolm felt assured that it was of greatimportance, otherwise Captain Nicholson would not have sent anyoneacross the open under a hail of bullets. With a deft movement thetrapped rifleman removed the paper from his pocket and conveyed itto his mouth, and before the approaching Huns were upon him he hadswallowed the paper.
Ten seconds later he was in the grip of three hulking Saxons, whopromptly bound his wrists behind his back and propped him up againstthe fire-step of the trench. The others, having satisfied themselvesthat the prisoner was an isolated straggler, crowded round andregarded him with undisguised interest.
Unable to understand a word Of German, Malcolm was at a loss tofollow their excited conversation. He managed to glean that therewas a discussion as to what the Huns would do with their prisoner.One particularly villainous-looking Boche was apparently advisingthat he should be shot outright, fingering the trigger of his rifleas if in joyous anticipation of playing the joint role of judge andexecutioner.
This amiable proposal was overruled by the others, and, after theprisoner had been searched and his belongings confiscated, Malcolmwas marched along the trench, preceded and followed by men withloaded rifles.
Almost every yard of the way was occupied by troops. The menregarded the passing of the prisoner with slight interest. Theirattention was principally directed upon some distant object, as ifthey were momentarily expecting an attack.
By one of those freaks of misfortune Rifleman Carr had completelylost his bearings, and in his wanderings had made his way towardsthe German trenches instead of towards the village of Messines. Theshells and bullets that had given him such a warm time had come fromhis own lines, and in endeavouring to seek cover he had stumbledupon a temporarily-unoccupied section of the original enemysupport-trenches. Even then he had no warning of his expensivemistake until he literally walked into a trap, the bay being filledwith Saxons of the 209th Reserve Regiment.
Conducted into a deep and spacious dug-out, the prisoner was broughtbefore two German officers. One, a major, was short and corpulent.Bald-headed, of florid complexion, and with abnormally-puffedeyelids, magnified still more by a pair of heavy convex glasses, theSaxon had Landsturmer written all over him. His companion was atall, cadaverous lieutenant of about twenty-five, narrow-chested,and with protruding shoulder-blades. His hawkish features, upturnedmoustache, and colourless skin gave him a truly Machiavellianaspect. He wanted only a pointed beard and a ruff to complete theliving representation of a sixteenth-century portrait of one of theruffianly Margraves of the Palatinate.
"It's the long chap who will cause trouble," mentally decidedMalcolm. "The big-paunched fellow won't count. They're going toquestion me, that's evident. If I try to bamboozle them there willbe trouble. By Jove! I'll give them a few choice New Zealandcatch-phrases, and see what happens."
At a sign from the Lieutenant the sergeant in charge of the escortdeftly removed the prisoner's identity disc and handed it to hissuperior officer for inspection. The cadaverous one jotted downsomething in a pocket-book, and exchanged a few words with hisconfrere.
"Now listen," began the Lieutenant in broken English; "der truth wemust haf. If lies you tell it useless is. We vill haf you shot atvonce. 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 ofhim. With a puzzled expression on his face he addressed the Major.Malcolm distinctly heard the words "Cut it out" mentioned more thanonce.
The lad smiled inwardly. The sight of the two Germans poring over amap to find this non-existent locality of "Cut it out" tickled hissense of humour.
Foiled in that direction, and attributing his discomfiture to thefact 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 Maoriphrases, concluding with "_Haeremai te kai_" (come to dinner) and adecisive shake of his head.
By the time he had finished the Hun lieutenant's face was a study inangry astonishment.
"It is evident," he remarked in German to his companion, "that theprisoner is one of the Englander's mercenaries--from Portugal,perhaps, or even from one of those outlandish and unheard-of nationsthat have presumptuously declared war against us. The fact that hisidentity disc proclaims him to be a New Zealander proves nothing,except that the English are liars. I was always under the impressionthat New Zealanders were black, tattooed savages. Since the prisoneris worthless to us I would suggest that he be shot forthwith."
The Major shook his head.
"Do not be too hasty, von Ruegen. Shooting prisoners would be allvery well if we were not in a vile plight ourselves. What wouldhappen to you and me if those Englanders repeated the success theyhad over the 46th Westphalians? By some means the enemy found outthat von Tondhoven had executed the two sergeants who were caughtjust beyond our entanglements--and what was the result? Not a singleofficer of the 46th Regiment was given quarter. Here we are cut offfrom our supplies. At any moment that infernal barrage might start,and then the khakis would be swarming on top of us. No, no, vonRuegen, I am not at all satisfied with your suggestion, nor am I atthe prisoner's replies."
To Malcolm's mortification the Major held up a packet of documentstaken from the prisoner--his pay-book, a few letters and post cardsfrom far-off New Zealand, and a few snapshots of incidents on boardthe transport _Awarua_.
Scribbling on a piece of paper, the Major handed the slip to theprisoner. On it was written:
"How is you not understand English, since we haf writing on youdiscovered?"
Malcolm studied the writing with feigned interest, puckering hisbrow and frowning in assumed perplexity. By a pantomime display heobtained a pencil from the Sergeant, and wrote rapidly anddistinctly "'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 theIntelligence officers---- Himmel! Is that the cursed barragecommencing?"
A heavy shell landing in close proximity to the dug-out set theconcrete girders shaking. With a hurried gesture the Major dismissedthe prisoner, and, accompanied by the saturnine lieutenant, boltedto 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 thetrench.
There was good cause for haste. With the exception of a fewsentries, stationed in concreted, sand-bagged shelters, the trenchwas deserted. The Saxon infantry had bolted to their dug-outs likestartled rabbits, as shell after shell screeched overhead and burstamongst the labyrinth of trenches in the rear.
Speedily Rifleman
Carr, now a prisoner of war, found himself in adug-out with half a dozen Huns for companionship.
For two reasons the Boches were favourably disposed towards theircaptive. One was that they were Saxons, who, hating the Prussian andall his works, were less imbued with the doctrine of hate towardsthe enemies of the Fatherland. The other was the knowledge that, inthe event of a successful British infantry attack, the presence of awell-treated prisoner would tend considerably to mitigate theirtreatment when the tables were turned. Over and over again instanceshave come to light of whole companies of Huns surrendering to theirlate prisoners when the lads in khaki were swarming with fixedbayonets over the parapets and into the enemy trenches.
Malcolm acted warily. Suspecting a trap, he refrained from verbalconversation, although several of the Saxons could speak a few wordsof English. He thanked them by signs when they provided him with aportion of their own meagre fare and showed him their treasures inthe form of photographs of relatives and places in the Fatherland.
Meanwhile the bombardment continued without intermission. Althoughthe 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 itsway into the deepest dug-outs. Wherever a direct hit occurred it wasall U P with the luckless inmates of the crowded undergroundshelters. Twenty or thirty feet of earth, reinforced with concreteand sand-bags, was not proof against the terribly destructivemissiles.
From time to time, as shells landed unpleasantly near, the faces ofthe Germans grew long. Malcolm, too, felt far from comfortable. Thepossibility of being blown into infinitesimal fragments by Britishshells was not what he had bargained for. He was quite willing, forfive shillings a day, to take his chance of being knocked out by theBoches, but----
The lugubrious faces of the Huns had the effect of making therifleman pull himself together. At any rate, Fritz was not going tosee that he had cold feet. Moistening his lips, Malcolm began towhistle.
In ordinary circumstances he could whistle well. Often while inbillets or standing by in a dug-out his chum would ask him to obligewith a whistling solo; but now he was forced to confess that theresult was not exactly melody.
"Nicht mehr!" exclaimed a corporal peremptorily.
Although he did not know what the Saxon said, the accent and theemphatic gesture were sufficient.
"He means 'shut up'," soliloquized Malcolm. "That's a nasty one. Isuppose it gets on his nerves. Well, I'm not surprised. I fancy Iwas a trifle flat and wobbly."
A few seconds later the dug-out shook violently. Some of the men whowere standing upright were thrown forward, gear was hurled from theracks and shelves, while the concrete walls cracked from top tobottom, bulging ominously under the pressure of earth behind them.
"A near one!" decided Malcolm. "Another five yards this way and itwould 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 ateach Other enquiringly. Evidently they were wanted outside, but weredebating as to who should make the first move. The carrying out oforders promptly--generally the German soldiers' chief concern--wasnoticeably absent. It was not until the command had been given threetimes that the men reluctantly left their shelter.
Left to himself, Malcolm discussed the situation. Now was hisopportunity to slip out at the heels of the Hun and trust to luck inthe open. If he escaped being blown up, he might be able to go overthe parapet unobserved and make his way towards the British lines.While the bombardment was in progress there was little chance of theHuns manning the trenches. On the other hand, prudence counselledhim to stay where he was. Should the infantry attack develop and besuccessful his rescue would be merely a question of time. Then againcame the maddening thought that if the British troops did notcapture the position he would remain a prisoner in the hands of theenemy.
"I'll chance it and go outside," he decided.
Without, the air was thick with smoke. At the most, Malcolm couldsee but twenty to twenty-five paces to right and left. In front wasthe parados, the ground covered with a yellowish dust from thehigh-explosive shells. At the entrance to the dugout into which hehad been taken to be questioned, a dozen men were vigorously plyingpick and shovel, the while urged to still greater efforts by agigantic sergeant.
A 12-inch shell had fallen on top of the shelter. Concrete earth andsand-bags were not proof against the terrific impact, despite thefact that thirty feet of solid material formed the roof of thesubterranean retreat.
"They might just as well save themselves the job," thought Malcolm."Mephistopheles and the Fat Boy won't be worth troubling about, Iguess. It was a jolly good thing that they didn't invite me to stayand have dinner with them. Now for it!"
Making for a gap in the parapet the lad began to crawl up the stepsof disentangled sand-bags and trench-props. The British guns wereevidently lifting. Although the air was "stiff" with screechingshells, the missiles were flying high overhead and bursting farbehind the German first-line trench. Machine-gun and rifle-firinghad ceased. Beyond the few men engaged in digging out theirunfortunate officers the normally lightly-held front trench waspractically deserted.
"I'll win through yet!" exclaimed the lad, voicing his thoughtsaloud.
The next instant a lurid flash leapt up from the ground almost infront 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.