“Herr Warner.”
Then dramatically—“Where did you get those boots?”
I looked sheepishly at my tell-tale English boots—better than any to be had in Germany.
“I bought them from——”
“Ja, ja!” he broke in. “We know all about that. They’re English boots and the English don’t give boots to Germans. You told me a schön tale! I know every man, woman and child in Alt Pokrent. You’re a Pole or else an escaped Russian. Stand up! Stop smoking and take off your coat!”
I obeyed and gave him Warner’s cream-colored coat. Not in the pocket but in the lining, he found my wallet with a collection of keepsakes, including a photo of a French poilu, a small American flag, and my English Certificate of Attestation. He was quite puzzled.
“I don’t know,” he soliloquized, curling his mustache again. “You’re something on the wrong side of the war. I am going to hold you for an escaped prisoner. It will be better for you to tell me the truth.”
Convinced of his determination, I told him my story, and he took it down in a little note-book.
“I don’t blame you, Junger,” he said. “I know what it is to be homesick, but why don’t you English come to your senses and stop fighting us?”
It is my firm belief that the natives of Gadebusch had proclaimed a holiday in honor of my capture, for they were all standing out on the sidewalks when we entered, my humble self trudging along in front with my box of provisions and this gallant knight errant following, mounted on his black charger and armed to the teeth. Sword, spurs, revolvers, harness, and mustache were all polished to the highest degree. Indeed he reminded me of a sort of Don Quixote as he glared fiercely from side to side and replied majestically to the queries of the multitude in regard to my nationality with: “Engländer!”