OUR BATTERY’S PRISONER

It was in the very small hours of a misty grey morning that the Lieutenant was relieved at the Forward Observing Position in the extreme front line established after the advance, and set out with his Signaller to return to the Battery. His way took him over the captured ground and the maze of captured trenches and dug-outs more or less destroyed by bombardment, and because there were still a number of German shells coming over the two kept as nearly as possible to a route which led them along or close to the old trenches, and so under or near some sort of cover.

The two were tired after a strenuous day, which had commenced the previous dawn in the Battery O.P.,[5] and finished in the ruined building in the new front line, and a couple of hours’ sleep in a very cold and wet cellar. The Lieutenant, plodding over the wet ground, went out of his way to walk along a part of trench where his Battery had been wire-cutting, and noted with a natural professional interest and curiosity the nature and extent of the damage done to the old enemy trenches and wire, when his eye suddenly caught the quick movement of a shadowy grey figure, which whisked instantly out of sight somewhere along the trench they were in.

The Lieutenant halted abruptly. “Did you see anyone move?” he asked the Signaller, who, of course, being behind the officer in the trench, had seen nothing, and said so. They pushed along the trench, and, coming to the spot where the figure had vanished, found the opening to a dug-out with a long set of stairs vanishing down into the darkness. Memories stirred in the officer’s mind of tales about Germans who had “lain doggo” in ground occupied by us, and had, over a buried wire, kept in touch with their batteries and directed their fire on to our new positions, and this, with some vague instinct of the chase, prompted the decision he announced to his Signaller that he was “going down to have a look.”

“Better be careful, sir,” said the Signaller. “You don’t know if the gas has cleared out of a deep place like that.” This was true, because a good deal of gas had been sent over in the attack of the day before, and the officer began to wonder if he’d be a fool to go down. But, on the other hand, if a German was there he would know there was no gas, and, anyhow, it was a full day since the gas cloud went over. He decided to chance it.

“You want to look out for any Boshies down there, sir,” went on the Signaller. “With all these yarns they’re fed with, about us killin’ prisoners, you never know how they’re goin’ to take it, and whether they’ll kamerad or make a fight for it.”

This also was true, and since a man crawling down a steep and narrow stair made a target impossible for anyone shooting up the tunnel to miss, the Lieutenant began to wish himself out of the job. But something, partly obstinacy, perhaps partly an unwillingness to back down after saying he would go, made him carry on. But before he started he took the precaution to push a sandbag off where it lay on the top step, to roll bumping and flopping down the stairs. If the Boche had any mind to shoot, he argued to himself, he’d almost certainly shoot at the sound, since it was too dark to see. The sandbag bumped down into silence, while the two stood straining their ears for any sound. There was none.

“You wait here,” said the Lieutenant, and, with his cocked pistol in his hand, began to creep cautiously down the stairs. The passage was narrow, and so low that he almost filled it, even although he was bent nearly double, and as he went slowly down, the discomforting thought again presented itself with renewed clearness, how impossible it would be for a shot up the steps to miss him, and again he very heartily wished himself well out of the job.

It was a long stair, fully twenty-five to thirty feet underground he reckoned by the time he reached the foot, but he found himself there and on roughly levelled ground with a good deal of relief. Evidently the Boche did not mean to show fight, at any rate, until he knew he was discovered. The Lieutenant knew no German, but made a try with one word, putting as demanding a tone into it as he could—“Kamerad!” He had his finger on the trigger and his pistol ready for action as he spoke, in case a pot-shot came in the direction of the sound of his voice.

There was a dead, a very dead and creepy silence after his word had echoed and whispered away to stillness. He advanced a step or two, feeling carefully foot after foot, with his left hand outstretched and the pistol in his right still ready. The next thing was to try a light. This would certainly settle it one way or the other, because if anyone was there who meant to shoot, he’d certainly loose off at the light.

The Lieutenant took out his torch and held it out from his body at full arm’s length, to give an extra chance of the bullet missing him if it were shot at the light. He took a long breath, flicked the light on in one quick flashing sweep round, and snapped it out again. There was no shot, no sound, no movement, nothing but that eerie stillness. The light had given him a glimpse of a long chamber vanishing into dimness. He advanced very cautiously a few steps, switched the light on again, and threw the beam quickly round the walls. There was no sign of anyone, but he could see now that the long chamber curved round and out of sight.

He switched the light off, stepped back to the stair foot, and called the Signaller down, hearing the clumping sound of the descending footsteps and the man’s voice with a childish relief and sense of companionship. He explained the position, threw the light boldly on, and pushed along to where the room ran round the corner. Here again he found no sign of life, but on exploring right to the end of the room found the apparent explanation of his failure to discover the man he had been so sure of finding down there. The chamber was a long, narrow one, curved almost to an S-shape, and at the far end was another steep stair leading up to the trench. The man evidently had escaped that way.

The dug-out was a large one, capable of holding, the Lieutenant reckoned, quarters for some thirty to forty men. It was hung all round with greatcoats swinging against the wall, and piled on shelves and hanging from hooks along wall and roof were packs, haversacks, belts, water-bottles, bayonets, and all sorts of equipment. There were dozens of the old leather “pickelhaube” helmets, and at sight of these the Lieutenant remembered an old compact made with the others in Mess that if one of them got a chance to pick up any helmets he should bring them in and divide up.

“I’m going to take half a dozen of those helmets,” he said, uncocking his pistol and pushing it into the holster.

“Right, sir,” said the Signaller. “I’d like one, too, and we might pick up some good sooveneers here.”

“Just as well, now we are here, to see what’s worth having,” said the Lieutenant. “I’d rather like to find a decent pair of field-glasses, or a Mauser pistol.”

He held the light while the Signaller hauled down kits, shook out packs, and rummaged round. For some queer reason they still spoke in subdued tones and made little noise, and suddenly the Lieutenant’s ears caught a sound that made him snap his torch off and stand, as he confesses, with his skin pringling and his hair standing on end.

“Did you hear anything?” he whispered. The Signaller had stiffened to stock stillness at his first instinctive start and the switching off of the light, and after a long pause whispered back, “No, sir; but mebbe you heard a rat.”

“Hold your breath and listen,” whispered the Lieutenant. “I thought I heard a sort of choky cough.”

He heard the indrawn breath and then dead silence, and then again—once more the hair stirred on his scalp—plain and unmistakable, a sound of deep, slow breathing. “Hear it?” he said very softly. “Sound of breathing,” and “Yes, believe I do now,” answered the Signaller, after a pause. They stood there in the darkness for a long minute, the Lieutenant in his own heart cursing himself for a fool not to have thoroughly searched the place, to have made sure they would not be trapped.

Especially he was a fool not to have looked behind those great coats which practically lined the walls and hung almost to the floor. There might be a dozen men hidden behind them; there might be a door leading out into another dug-out; there might be rifles or pistols covering them both at that second, fingers pressing on the triggers. He was, to put it bluntly, “scared stiff,” as he says himself, but the low voice of the Signaller brought him to the need of some action. “I can’t hear it now, sir.”

“I’m going to turn the light on again,” he said. “Have a quick look round, especially for any men’s feet showing under the coats round the wall.” He switched his torch on again, ran it round the walls, once, swiftly, and then, seeing no feet under the coats, slowly and deliberately yard by yard.

“I’ll swear I heard a man breathe,” he said positively, still peering round. “We’ll search the place properly.”

In one corner near the stair foot lay a heap of clothing of some sort, with a great-coat spread wide over it. It caught the Lieutenant’s eye and suspicions. Why should coats be heaped there—smooth—at full length?

Without moving his eyes from the pile, he slid his automatic pistol out again, and slipped off the safety catch. “Keep the light on those coats,” he said, softly, and tip-toed over to the pile, the pistol pointed, his finger close and tight on the trigger. His heart was thumping uncomfortably, and his nerves tight as fiddle-strings. He felt sure somehow that here was one man at least; and if he or any others in the dug-out meant fight on discovery, now, at any second, the first shot must come.

He stooped over the coats and thrust the pistol forward. If a man was there, had a rifle or pistol ready pointed even, at least he, the Lieutenant, ought to get off a shot with equal, or a shade greater quickness. With his left hand he picked up the coat corner, turned it back, and jerked the pistol forward and fairly under the nose of the head his movement had disclosed. “Lie still,” he said, not knowing or caring whether the man understood or not, and for long seconds stood staring down on the white face and into the frightened eyes that looked unblinking up at him.

“Kamerad,” whispered the man, still as death under the threat of that pistol muzzle and the finger curled about the trigger. “Right,” said the Lieutenant. “Kamerad. Now, very gently, hands up,” and again, slowly and clearly, “Hands up.” The man understood, and the Lieutenant, watching like a hawk for a suspicious movement, for sign of a weapon appearing, waited while the hands came slowly creeping up and out from under the coat. His nerves were still on a raw edge—perhaps because long days of observing in the front lines or with the battery while the guns are going their hardest in a heavy night-and-day bombardment are not conducive to steadiness of nerves—but, satisfied at last that the man meant to play no tricks, he flung the coat back off him, made him stand with his hands up, and ran his left hand over breast and pockets for feel of any weapon. That done, he stepped back with a sigh of relief. “Phew! I believe I was just about as cold scared as he was,” he said. “D’you speak English? No. Well, I suppose you’ll never know how close to death you’ve been the last minute.”

“I was a bit jumpy, too, sir,” said the Signaller. “You never know, and it doesn’t do to take chances wi’ these chaps.”

“I wasn’t,” said the Lieutenant. “I believe, if I’d seen a glint of metal as his hands came up, I’d have blown the top of his blessed head off. Pity he can’t speak English.”

“Mans,” said the prisoner, nodding his head towards the other end of the dug-out. “Oder mans.”

The Lieutenant whipped round with a startled exclamation. “What, more of ’em. G’ Lord! I’ve had about enough of this. But we’d better make all safe. Come on, Fritz; lead us to ’em. No monkey tricks, now,” and he pushed his pistol close to the German’s flinching head. “Oder mans, kamerad, eh? Savvy?”

“Ge-wounded,” said the prisoner, making signs to help his meaning. Under his guidance and with the pistol close to his ear all the time, they pulled aside some of the coats and found a man lying in a bunk hidden behind them. His head was tied up in a soaking bandage, the rough pillow was wet with blood, and by all the signs he was pretty badly hit. The Lieutenant needed no more than a glance to see the man was past being dangerous, so, after making the prisoner give him a drink from a water-bottle, they went round the walls, and found it recessed all the way round with empty bunks.

“What a blazing ass I was not to hunt round,” said the Lieutenant, puffing another sigh of relief as they finished the jumpy business of pulling aside coat after coat, and never knowing whether the movement of any one of them was going to bring a muzzle-close shot from the blackness behind. “We must get out of this, though. It’s growing late, and the Battery will be wondering and thinking we’ve got pipped on the way back.”

“What about these things, sir?” said the Signaller, pointing to the helmets and equipment they had hauled down.

“Right,” said the Lieutenant; “I’m certainly not going without a souvenir of this entertainment. And I don’t see why Brother Fritz oughtn’t to make himself useful. Here, spread that big ground-sheet———”

So it came about that an hour after a procession tramped back through the lines of the infantry and on to the gun lines—one German, with a huge ground-sheet, gathered at the corners and bulging with souvenirs, slung over his shoulder, the Lieutenant close behind him with an automatic at the ready, and the Signaller, wearing a huge grin, and with a few spare helmets slung to his haversack strap.

“I thought I’d fetch him right along,” the Lieutenant explained a little later to the O.C. Battery. “Seeing the Battery’s never had a prisoner to its own cheek, I thought one might please ’em. And, besides, I wanted him to lug the loot along. I’ve got full outfits for the mess this time, helmets and rifles and bayonets and all sorts.”

The Battery were pleased. The Gunners don’t often have the chance to take prisoners, and this one enjoyed all the popularity of a complete novelty. He was taken to the men’s dug-out, and fed with a full assignment of rations, from bacon and tea to jam and cheese, while the men in turn cross-questioned him by the aid of an English-French-German phrase-book unearthed by some studious gunner.

And when he departed under escort to be handed over and join the other prisoners, the Battery watched him go with complete regret.

“To tell the truth, sir,” the Sergeant-Major remarked to the Lieutenant, “the men would like to have kept him as a sort of Battery Souvenir—kind of a cross between a mascot and a maid-of-all-work. Y’see, it’s not often—in fact, I don’t know that we’re not the first Field Battery in this war to bring in a prisoner wi’ arms, kit, and equipment complete.”

“The first battery,” said the Lieutenant fervently, “and when I think of that minute down a deep hole in pitch dark, hearing someone breathe, and not knowing—well, we may be the first battery, and, as far as I’m concerned, we’ll jolly well be the last.”