“Don’t speak to the Hun!” some one called, and then, for the first time, Ned and Bob seemed to realize that the little man, with whom they had been on friendly terms at college, was an enemy.
But such was the case. It was only one of many queer incidents of the war, and more than one fighting American found among the prisoners sent back, after he and his comrades had cleaned up a Boche nest, some man he had known back home—a former waiter at a club, perhaps, or a man who delivered his groceries.
“How came you here?” asked Nick Schmouder, with scarcely a trace of German accent, as he and the other prisoners stood with upraised hands, though one of the survivors had to drop his as he fell in a heap because of weakness from his wounds.
“We came here to teach the Kaiser how to walk 154 Spanish,” said Bob. “I didn’t think you’d fight against us, Nick, after what you learned at Boxwood Hall.”
“Ach! I was forced to,” was the answer. “I am glad it is over—that I am a prisoner. I did not like this war. I shall be glad when it is over and you have won. It is terrible! Listen, I will a secret tell,” and he did not seem afraid of the effect it might have on his apathetic comrades. “Every time I shoot the machine gun I point it at the ground so it will kill no Americans. I do not want to kill them.”
“Hum, that’s a good story to tell now!” said the incredulous officer. “Take ’em to the rear with the other prisoners. Wait, though, this one can’t walk. He’ll have to have a stretcher. I’ll have his wounds patched up. But take the others back. Corporal Hopkins!” he called.
“Corporal Hopkins is wounded, Sir,” reported Ned, with a catch in his voice. “He may be dead. He fell just as we stormed this place, Sir!”
“Oh, I did not know that. See to him at once. Here!” he called to some stretcher-bearers who were coming up, “we may need you!”
They hurried forward, and, leaving Nick Schmouder and the other German prisoners under guard, the officer, with Ned, Bob, and some other Americans, went back to where Jerry had been seen to fall. It was just outside of a little defile 155 leading to the dugout where the machine gun had wrought such havoc.
“There—there he is!” faltered Ned, as he pointed to the crumpled-up body of his chum, and Bob turned his face away, for it seemed to be the end of Jerry Hopkins.