“Blimy, I thought I was ’avin’ me eyes tested,” said one of the sailors. “It’s a bloomin’ wonder they don’t clap a pair o’ blinders on yer and be done with it!”
Tom had not expected to hear any English spoken and it had never sounded so good to him before. The sailor did not seem to be at all awed by the grim surroundings, and his freedom from restraint was comforting to Tom who had felt very apprehensive. He was soon to learn that the most conspicuous and attractive thing about a British sailor or soldier is his disposition to take things as he finds them and not to be greatly concerned about anything.
“Hi, Fritzie,” he added, addressing one of the soldiers, “are we for Wittenberg or carn’t yer s’y?” The guard paid no attention.
“It’s no difference,” said one of the men in oilskins.
“It’s a bloomin’ lot o’ difference,” said the sailor, “whether you’re civilian or not, I can jolly well tell you! It’s a short course in Wittenberg—there and Slopsgotten, or wotever they calls it. And the Spanish Ambassador, ’e calls to inquire arfter yer ’ealth every d’y. Hi there, Fritzie, ’ave we long to wite, old pal?”
As there seemed to be no objection to this freedom of speech, Tom ventured a question.
“Is this Germany?”
“Germany? No, it’s the Cannibal Islands,” said the sailor, and everyone except the guard laughed.
“You’re not from Blighty,[3] eh?” the sailor asked.
“I’m American,” said Tom; “I was ship’s boy on a transport and I fell off and a U-boat picked me up.”