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 the Intelligence officers---- Himmel! Is that the cursed barrage commencing?"
A heavy shell landing in close proximity to the dug-out set the concrete girders shaking. With a hurried gesture the Major dismissed the prisoner, and, accompanied by the saturnine lieutenant, bolted to 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 the trench.
There was good cause for haste. With the exception of a few sentries, stationed in concreted, sand-bagged shelters, the trench was deserted. The Saxon infantry had bolted to their dug-outs like startled rabbits, as shell after shell screeched overhead and burst amongst the labyrinth of trenches in the rear.
Speedily Rifleman Carr, now a prisoner of war, found himself in a dug-out with half a dozen Huns for companionship.
For two reasons the Boches were favourably disposed towards their captive. One was that they were Saxons, who, hating the Prussian and all his works, were less imbued with the doctrine of hate towards the enemies of the Fatherland. The other was the knowledge that, in the event of a successful British infantry attack, the presence of a well-treated prisoner would tend considerably to mitigate their treatment when the tables were turned. Over and over again instances have come to light of whole companies of Huns surrendering to their late prisoners when the lads in khaki were swarming with fixed bayonets over the parapets and into the enemy trenches.
Malcolm acted warily. Suspecting a trap, he refrained from verbal conversation, although several of the Saxons could speak a few words of English. He thanked them by signs when they provided him with a portion of their own meagre fare and showed him their treasures in the form of photographs of relatives and places in the Fatherland.
Meanwhile the bombardment continued without intermission. Although the 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 its way into the deepest dug-outs. Wherever a direct hit occurred it was all U P with the luckless inmates of the crowded underground shelters. Twenty or thirty feet of earth, reinforced with concrete and sand-bags, was not proof against the terribly destructive missiles.
From time to time, as shells landed unpleasantly near, the faces of the Germans grew long. Malcolm, too, felt far from comfortable. The possibility of being blown into infinitesimal fragments by British shells was not what he had bargained for. He was quite willing, for five shillings a day, to take his chance of being knocked out by the Boches, but----
The lugubrious faces of the Huns had the effect of making the rifleman pull himself together. At any rate, Fritz was not going to see that he had cold feet. Moistening his lips, Malcolm began to whistle.