Читать книгу With Haig on the Somme - D. H. Parry - Страница 17

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Dennis Dashwood laughed aloud, but though there was genuine amusement in his voice at the beginning, it quickly tailed off into a broken quiver, for the lad was still suffering from the effect of the shell burst.

"You will laugh on the other side of your mouth directly, if I know anything," said his captor gravely.

"I am quite content to leave that to the judgment of your officer, my friend," replied Dennis in French. "But have the goodness not to shake me like a rat. I've got a splitting headache as it is."

"Ha, you spies speak all languages. Ma foi! What a lot of clever scoundrels you are!" grunted the Alsatian corporal. "What a pity, for you have not got a really bad face when one comes to look at it."

"Is it far to your headquarters?" inquired his prisoner wearily.

"Not far, so you had better make the most of it. It will be your last walk on earth. How beautiful is the song of the lark! The little animals do not seem to mind the gunfire at all. Do you have larks in Prussia?"

"I hope we shall, my corporal, when you and I get there with our battalions," but the corporal was impervious to the harmless jest, and squared his shoulders as they came in sight of his commander's post.

The other man whom Dennis had seen on the slope had come down and joined them, and the pair marched their prisoner in with a brisk, businesslike stride.

The French trench ended, or began, whichever way you like to take it, in a wood of oaks, and the smoke of many fires drifted among the tree-trunks. At the door of a dug-out a group of officers sat round a trestle table taking their coffee, and they all looked up as the corporal cried, "Halt, prisoner!" and saluted with his rifle.

"Mon Commandant, I found this man hiding by the roadside behind yonder. He speaks German and French and all the languages under the sun, and I am convinced he is a spy."

The commandant was a spare, black-bearded man, whose uniform of horizon blue gave one rather the impression that it had been made by a dressmaker, but on the left breast was a little strip of crimson and green ribbon, showing that he had won the Military Cross during the war. He had black leggings and narrow black belts, and the wristbands of his shirt were spotlessly clean.

"What have you to say for yourself, prisoner?" said the commandant, eyeing him keenly from top to toe, through the chalk and dirt that encrusted him, and Dennis in excellent French told him who he was.

"Where is the dispatch of which you speak?" was the next question, and Dennis pointed to his torn tunic. "It was destroyed when the car was blown up, Monsieur le Commandant," he replied.

"But you must still have some proofs of your identity. What is that in his pocket?" And the commandant, who had lit a cigarette, pointed with the match.

The corporal thrust his hand into the drab tunic and produced two things which he laid on the table by the long loaf from which the officers had cut slices to dip in their coffee.

"Ha!" said the commandant, opening the wallet. "You told me your name was Dashwood, but here it is given as Alfred Robinson."

"I brought that away from the body of the man who drove me," explained Dennis. "That is the English chauffeur's licence from Scotland Yard."

"And this?" continued the officer, his face becoming graver as he examined the German soldier's "small book." "Here you are described as Hans Schrettelmeyer, Private in the 24th Reserve Battalion of the 108th Saxons; how do you account for it?"

"That I picked up in the fire trench of my own battalion when we repulsed the attack last night," said Dennis, drawing himself up a little and colouring indignantly as he found his position becoming serious.

"Oh, come, you are evidently fond of picking things up, my friend," said the commandant with a dry smile. "Is there anything else that you have found that will help you?"

"I have my own identification disc," said the lad hotly, and then he bit his lips as he groped between his shirt and undervest.

"Unfortunately, monsieur, it has also gone!" he exclaimed, turning pale.

"Ah, well, I do not think we want it," said the commandant, tilting his chair backwards. "We have had several of your kind prowling about our lines lately—one only last night, and an example is necessary. You are a spy, my friend, and that is the end of the matter."

"Look here, sir, this is all bosh!" exclaimed Dennis hotly in his own language, realising for the first time that appearances were dead against him.

"Quite right, my boy," laughed one of the other officers in English. "You are all Boche. I think there is very little doubt about that."

The commandant leaned across the table and said something in a low voice to the others, and they all nodded.

"May I be permitted to make an observation, sir?" said the lad.

"With pleasure," replied the commandant, bowing politely.

"A very short question over your wire to Monsieur le Général commanding this army corps will convince you that I am what I tell you I am," said Dennis.

"Even if I thought there were any necessity it would, unfortunately, be impossible," said the commandant in a cold voice. "Your wires are not the only ones that suffer, and ours has undergone some damage during the night. It may be two hours before it is repaired, and you must not be surprised if we make short shrift of you."

"But, monsieur!" expostulated Dennis. "This is an outrage! My country and yours are firm friends, and I repeat, upon my word of honour, that I am an Englishman."

The officer who had laughed at him and who spoke English, said in an undertone: "Do you know, monsieur le commandant, I should feel inclined—with all due respect I say it—to postpone the execution. I must confess this boy is a marvellous linguist, and there is not a trace of fear in his bearing."

"My dear Laval, for myself I am convinced, and I shall take all responsibility," replied the commandant. "Prisoner, if you would like to write a letter to your friends you are at liberty to do so. We will endeavour to forward it afterwards. Also, if you care to avail yourself of the good offices of our chaplain they are at your disposal. But do not waste time, for you will be shot in half an hour," and he made a grave inclination with his head to intimate that the interview was at an end.

A contemptuous smile passed across the young lieutenant's face, and he bowed in return.

"Very well, sir, I can only say that you will be sorry for this decision," he said. "I have a fountain pen—will somebody kindly lend me a sheet of paper?"

One of the officers at the table handed him a blank form, at the same time offering his cigarette-case.

"No, thanks, I won't smoke," said the boy, and, sitting down on a billet of wood, he laid the paper on his knee.