“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.”