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Updated: May 22, 2025
After about two hours of vain attempts the Unteroffizier had at last succeeded in waking the Captain, reminded him of his bet, and warned him that he would be the laughingstock of the officers' mess if he did not accomplish his object, but the Captain was trembling all over and insisted on returning to the German lines.
They are easy, docile, physically strong, and accustomed to a lower grade of food than any other prisoners, except the Serbs. The British, of course, are much the smallest number in Germany, but much the most highly prized for hate propaganda purposes. "More difficult to manage," said one Unteroffizier to me, "than the whole of the rest of our two million."
The unteroffizier ordered me to repeat and salute. I did so literally. The officer was, to all outward appearances, the only other person there who remained unmoved. My ardour had cooled by this time, and his very silence seemed worse than the threats of the guard. Nor was I exactly in love with my self-appointed task. Nevertheless, I saw my mates watching me and inwardly applauding.
The guards had French rifles of the vintage of 1870 which carried cartridges with bullets that were really slugs of lead. They began to load. A little unteroffizier tugged excitedly at his holster for the revolver. A big Canadian stepped up: "Wait a minute, mate." He reached down to the little man's waist and drew the gun.
I knew that there was a large window in the first and second-class dining-room which was even closer to the ambulances in the square than were the exit steps. I did not go directly to the dining-room, but sat on one of the high-backed benches on the platform and began to read the papers. The Unteroffizier looked out and found me fairly buried in them.
In the darkness they lost their bearings and crawled toward the English trenches. They reached the barbed wire and were suddenly challenged by our sentry. Being too drunk to realize that the challenge was in English, the Captain refused to crawl back. Finally the Unteroffizier convinced his superior that they were in front of the English wire.
I turned away in disgust, hating to see a man cross the Great Divide full of booze. One of our officers could speak German and he questioned the dying man. In a faint voice, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, the Unteroffizier told his story. There had been a drinking bout among the officers in one of the German dugouts, the main beverage being champagne.
The unteroffizier in immediate charge of us, if left alone would not make us do this. He was the last kind German I remember, and I have mentioned all whom I can recall as having performed the slightest act of kindness to us, even of the most negative quality.
An unteroffizier ordered us to march by, one by one, to give the Herr Offizier "Augen Links" in the German fashion, and to the post, which represented another officer, an "Augen Rechts" when we should come to it. "I'll see him in hell first," I muttered to the man next me. I was in the lead of the party. I shook with excitement and fear of I knew not what.
Realizing this too late, the Captain drew his revolver and with a muttered curse crept blindly toward our trench. His bullet no doubt killed our Captain. Then the bomb came over and there he was, dying, and a good job too, we thought. The Captain dead? Well, his men wouldn't weep at the news. Without giving us any further information the Unteroffizier died.
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