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He got the Bosches to believe that he was badly ill in Paris when the war broke out and couldn't slip away, otherwise he'd have sprung to do his loyal duty to the Fatherland. He persuaded them that his lot being cast in France for the time, he'd resolved to serve Germany by spying, until he could somehow bolt across the frontier.
But I noticed that they answered my companion in a dull, trance-like way, as though our questions concerned no one so little as themselves. "They're fugitives," he repeated to me. "Been burnt out of their farm by the Bosches near the Menin ridge." "Are they all alone?" I asked. He put some further questions. "Yes, their only son was shot by the Germans when they billeted there." "Why?"
But I'm not on duty continuously. I am Box. Cox takes over to-morrow." He rose to his feet and looked at his watch. "You ought to move off by half-past one, sir," he said to Blaikie. "It begins to get light after that, and the Bosches have three shells for that cross-road over there down in their time-table at two-fifteen. They're a hide-bound lot, but punctual!" "Thanks," said Blaikie.
After that they push on to their second and third lines; and if they can capture and hold them well, that's where the fun comes in. We go for all we are worth through the gaps the others have made, and carry on the big push, and keep the Bosches on the run until they drop in their tracks! That's the situation. If we are called up to-night or to-morrow, it will mean that things are going well.
Don't mind the rats. Cover your head well up. They won't touch your face then." I crawled in on to my bed. Then I noticed a peculiar and decidedly unpleasant smell. "Have you got any corpses here?" I asked him. "Yes, I believe so," he said. "You see the other entrance has been blown in. It's the other end of your bed, and I believe some Bosches were buried in the débris.
When we'd hidden the limp Ace, trussed up in my prison rig, Herter yelled to the waiting men, in a good imitation of Hupfer's voice. We ran smoothly out of the hangar, and were given a fine send off. How soon the Bosches found out how they'd been spoofed, I don't know. It couldn't have been long though, as my prison guard was in attendance. The great thing was, we went up in grand style.
The Bosches were "strafing" it pretty thoroughly. Away across at Montaubon village the same thing was happening. They were fairly watering the place with H.E. and shrapnel. Our guns were rattling out as well, and I am glad to say that it sounded to me as though ours were at least ten to their one. Well, the scenes had to be obtained. I admit the job looked anything but pleasant. "Well, here goes!"
And after all, I reflect, the Belgians once had wives and children too. Many of them have neither wife nor child any longer. And so perish all Germans! The plumber, who had been studying his "hand," looked up from the cards. "We have killed a great number of the Bosches," he said dispassionately. "Yes, a great number. It was in a beetroot field, and there were as many dead Germans as beetroots.
There are Breughels and Bosches aplenty, and none too good. But there are several Jordaens of quality, a family group, and three heads of street musicians. We forgot to mention an attribution to Jan van Eyck, The Triumph of Religion, which is a curious affair no matter whose brain conceived it. The attendant always points out its religious features with ill-concealed glee.
During all that time they were subject to most pressing attentions on the part of the Bosches, but they never lost a yard of trench. They received word from Headquarters that to detach another regiment for their relief would seriously weaken other and most important dispositions. The Commander-in-Chief would therefore be greatly obliged if they could hold on. So they held on.
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