Foiled in that direction, and attributing his discomfiture to the fact that the military map was quite inadequate to present needs, the Lieutenant wrote in his notebook again.

"How you arrive at our lines?" continued the inquisitor.

Malcolm thought fit to reply in a totally irrelevant string of Maori phrases, concluding with "_Haeremai te kai_" (come to dinner) and a decisive shake of his head.

By the time he had finished the Hun lieutenant's face was a study in angry astonishment.

"It is evident," he remarked in German to his companion, "that the prisoner is one of the Englander's mercenaries--from Portugal, perhaps, or even from one of those outlandish and unheard-of nations that have presumptuously declared war against us. The fact that his ident.i.ty disc proclaims him to be a New Zealander proves nothing, except that the English are liars. I was always under the impression that New Zealanders were black, tattooed savages. Since the prisoner is worthless to us I would suggest that he be shot forthwith."

The Major shook his head.

"Do not be too hasty, von Rugen. Shooting prisoners would be all very well if we were not in a vile plight ourselves. What would happen to you and me if those Englanders repeated the success they had over the 46th Westphalians? By some means the enemy found out that von Tondhoven had executed the two sergeants who were caught just beyond our entanglements--and what was the result? Not a single officer of the 46th Regiment was given quarter. Here we are cut off from our supplies. At any moment that infernal barrage might start, and then the khakis would be swarming on top of us. No, no, von Rugen, I am not at all satisfied with your suggestion, nor am I at the prisoner's replies."

To Malcolm's mortification the Major held up a packet of doc.u.ments taken from the prisoner--his pay-book, a few letters and post cards from far-off New Zealand, and a few snapshots of incidents on board the transport _Awarua_.

Scribbling on a piece of paper, the Major handed the slip to the prisoner. On it was written:

"How is you not understand English, since we haf writing on you discovered?"

Malcolm studied the writing with feigned interest, puckering his brow and frowning in a.s.sumed perplexity. By a pantomime display he obtained a pencil from the Sergeant, and wrote rapidly and distinctly "'Nuff sed" in reply.

A reference to two different Anglo-German dictionaries followed, accompanied by many guttural e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l after sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.ls 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.

In ordinary circ.u.mstances he could whistle well. Often while in billets or standing by in a dug-out his chum would ask him to oblige with a whistling solo; but now he was forced to confess that the result was not exactly melody.

"Nicht mehr!" exclaimed a corporal peremptorily.

Although he did not know what the Saxon said, the accent and the emphatic gesture were sufficient.

"He means 'shut up'," soliloquized Malcolm. "That's a nasty one. I suppose it gets on his nerves. Well, I'm not surprised. I fancy I was a trifle flat and wobbly."

A few seconds later the dug-out shook violently. Some of the men who were standing upright were thrown forward, gear was hurled from the racks and shelves, while the concrete walls cracked from top to bottom, bulging ominously under the pressure of earth behind them.

"A near one!" decided Malcolm. "Another five yards this way and it would have been all up."

A hoa.r.s.e voice shouted through the tunnel that formed the entrance.

Without showing any tendency to bestir themselves the men looked at each Other enquiringly. Evidently they were wanted outside, but were debating as to who should make the first move. The carrying out of orders promptly--generally the German soldiers' chief concern--was noticeably absent. It was not until the command had been given three times that the men reluctantly left their shelter.

Left to himself, Malcolm discussed the situation. Now was his opportunity to slip out at the heels of the Hun and trust to luck in the open. If he escaped being blown up, he might be able to go over the parapet un.o.bserved and make his way towards the British lines.

While the bombardment was in progress there was little chance of the Huns manning the trenches. On the other hand, prudence counselled him to stay where he was. Should the infantry attack develop and be successful his rescue would be merely a question of time. Then again came the maddening thought that if the British troops did not capture the position he would remain a prisoner in the hands of the enemy.

"I'll chance it and go outside," he decided.

Without, the air was thick with smoke. At the most, Malcolm could see but twenty to twenty-five paces to right and left. In front was the parados, the ground covered with a yellowish dust from the high-explosive sh.e.l.ls. At the entrance to the dugout into which he had been taken to be questioned, a dozen men were vigorously plying pick and shovel, the while urged to still greater efforts by a gigantic sergeant.

A 12-inch sh.e.l.l had fallen on top of the shelter. Concrete earth and sand-bags were not proof against the terrific impact, despite the fact that thirty feet of solid material formed the roof of the subterranean retreat.

"They might just as well save themselves the job," thought Malcolm.

"Mephistopheles and the Fat Boy won't be worth troubling about, I guess. It was a jolly good thing that they didn't invite me to stay and have dinner with them. Now for it!"

Making for a gap in the parapet the lad began to crawl up the steps of disentangled sand-bags and trench-props. The British guns were evidently lifting. Although the air was "stiff" with screeching sh.e.l.ls, the missiles were flying high overhead and bursting far behind the German first-line trench. Machine-gun and rifle-firing had ceased. Beyond the few men engaged in digging out their unfortunate officers the normally lightly-held front trench was practically deserted.

"I'll win through yet!" exclaimed the lad, voicing his thoughts aloud.

The next instant a lurid flash leapt up from the ground almost in front of him. Hurled violently backward by a terrific blast again, Malcolm had a fleeting vision of the ground rising up to meet him, and then everything became a blank.

CHAPTER XXIII

At Duren Camp

When he recovered consciousness Malcolm Carr found himself lying on a bundle of straw in an advance dressing-station. He was puzzled greatly. He could not imagine how he came there, or why he should be there at all. He had no recollection of being lifted by the blast of a sh.e.l.l. Somehow things didn't seem quite right.

Gradually the chain of events during the last few hours connected itself. He remembered the stand of C Company; being sent off by the platoon-commander with an urgent message; blundering into the hostile lines; being made prisoner and attempting to escape.

"And now I've got a buckshie," he decided. "Wonder where I am?"

He raised his head and looked around. The effort sent a throbbing pain from the base of his neck to his spine. He felt bruised all over, while his left arm was tightly bandaged from elbow to wrist. A strange, almost uncanny silence seemed everywhere, and yet the place was teeming with activity.

The dressing-station was in the open. The ground was crowded with bundles of straw and stretchers, each occupied by a helpless human being. More stretchers were constantly arriving with their ghastly burdens. Men slightly wounded were staggering in, covered with dust, and looking utterly dejected. Not one had a smile upon his face.

Malcolm had seen an advance dressing-station more than once, where casualties were arriving after a stiff engagement. Then he had been struck by the cheerfulness shown by most of the men. Even the badly wounded were elated, for the day had gone well, and they were happy in the knowledge that the stiff task imposed upon them had been brilliantly accomplished. But things seemed different here.

In front of a partly demolished barn, over which was flying a Geneva Cross flag, covered ambulance motors were being filled up with wounded, who, their injuries attended to, were being dispatched to the base hospital. To Malcolm's bewilderment, the powerful motors started in absolute silence, while the heavy wheels made no sound as they jolted over the _pave_.