We’ve got only one line, really—our reserve lines are mere scratches.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I say, Maddison, do you see those green lanyards and tassels on those big fellows’ shoulders? They’re sniper’s cords. They’re Prussians.” Phillip thought that they did not look at all friendly. Their heads looked strong, big and round, compared with the Saxons’.
“That’s what the Saxons told me what they are,” continued Glass. “They don’t like the Prussians.”
“Yes, my father always told me that.”
One of the small Saxons was contentedly standing by himself smoking a new and large meerschaum pipe. He wore large spectacles, and looked just like a comic-paper “Hun”. Phillip noticed that the white bowl of the pipe had the face and high-peaked cap of Little Willie painted on it. The Saxon saw him looking at his pipe, and taking it out of his mouth, he said with quiet satisfaction, “Kronprinz! Prächtig Kerl!” as he looked at the portrait and wagged his thin black little goat’s beard in approval, before putting the mouthpiece back carefully between his teeth, and puffing to keep the tobacco alight. This done, he removed the pipe, examined the bowl, rubbed it against his nose, and went on smoking.
“He’s trying to colour it,” said Phillip. “I had a curved pipe like that, only it was wood—the Artist’s pipe. I got fed up with trying to season it. Cheer-ho!” he said to the man with the meerschaum.
Another Saxon came forward to explain in English. “‘Prächtig Kerl’ means ‘Good Chap’, or ‘Decent Fellow’. What you would call a ‘Proper Toff’ in Piccadilly. The Kronprinz Wilhelm gave us all a pipe. Jolly fine Christmas box, eh?”
“Jolly fine,” said Phillip. “You speak very good English.”
“I have been in London. I was waiter at the Regent Palace Hotel for two years. You know it?”
“No,” said Phillip, “but I know London, or bits of it.”
“Do you know Germany, sir?”
“No, but I have German cousins in Bavaria.”
“So?”
“So,” said Phillip. “Prächtig Kerl—your Crown Prince.”
Church, who had been amused by this conversation, saidamiably to Phillip, “Fancy thinking like that about Little Willie! But I suppose they don’t realise what an absolute ass the fellow really is!”
“They’re told nothing,” said someone. “They’re driven on from behind by their officers. You see the Germans standing by their support and reserve trenches? They daren’t come over.”
Church said to Phillip, in a confidential voice, “That’s rot, in my opinion—he got it out of that rag The Daily Trident. But did you notice that Saxon called you ‘sir’? They think we are officer-cadets in these goat-skins. Incidentally, I heard from one of the Germans this morning that the London Highlanders are supposed to be going back to St. Omer, and start an Officers’ School for Kitchener’s Army.”
“I know how they got that,” said a man that Phillip recognised from No. 3 Company. “The Germans listen to what our chaps signal on their buzzers. When about a fortnight ago Harvey-Lowther, in our company, was ordered to report to H.Q., his commission having come through, they knew somehow; and put a board in their trenches, saying, ‘Congratulations Mr. Harvey-Lowther’. They’ve got an electric device which picks up our Morse messages.”
“Good lord!”
“They’re damned efficient,” said Church. “Did you hear that the Mayor of Armentières was shot as a spy? They found a secret telephone in his cellar, going underground to the German lines.”
“Then there is the case of a farmer plowing with grey horses in a field next to a battery of our heavies near our transport lines. His furrows were in the shape of an arrow pointing straight at the battery. A Taube overhead saw it, and soon afterwards the guns were shelled, and blown to hell. The farmer was shot as a spy. Yes, the Germans were well prepared for this war,” said a
“I was thinking the same thing. I say, Maddison, do you see those green lanyards and tassels on those big fellows’ shoulders? They’re sniper’s cords. They’re Prussians.” Phillip thought that they did not look at all friendly. Their heads looked strong, big and round, compared with the Saxons’.
“That’s what the Saxons told me what they are,” continued Glass. “They don’t like the Prussians.”
“Yes, my father always told me that.”
One of the small Saxons was contentedly standing by himself smoking a new and large meerschaum pipe. He wore large spectacles, and looked just like a comic-paper “Hun”. Phillip noticed that the white bowl of the pipe had the face and high-peaked cap of Little Willie painted on it. The Saxon saw him looking at his pipe, and taking it out of his mouth, he said with quiet satisfaction, “Kronprinz! Prächtig Kerl!” as he looked at the portrait and wagged his thin black little goat’s beard in approval, before putting the mouthpiece back carefully between his teeth, and puffing to keep the tobacco alight. This done, he removed the pipe, examined the bowl, rubbed it against his nose, and went on smoking.
“He’s trying to colour it,” said Phillip. “I had a curved pipe like that, only it was wood—the Artist’s pipe. I got fed up with trying to season it. Cheer-ho!” he said to the man with the meerschaum.
Another Saxon came forward to explain in English. “‘Prächtig Kerl’ means ‘Good Chap’, or ‘Decent Fellow’. What you would call a ‘Proper Toff’ in Piccadilly. The Kronprinz Wilhelm gave us all a pipe. Jolly fine Christmas box, eh?”
“Jolly fine,” said Phillip. “You speak very good English.”
“I have been in London. I was waiter at the Regent Palace Hotel for two years. You know it?”
“No,” said Phillip, “but I know London, or bits of it.”
“Do you know Germany, sir?”
“No, but I have German cousins in Bavaria.”
“So?”
“So,” said Phillip. “Prächtig Kerl—your Crown Prince.”
Church, who had been amused by this conversation, saidamiably to Phillip, “Fancy thinking like that about Little Willie! But I suppose they don’t realise what an absolute ass the fellow really is!”
“They’re told nothing,” said someone. “They’re driven on from behind by their officers. You see the Germans standing by their support and reserve trenches? They daren’t come over.”
Church said to Phillip, in a confidential voice, “That’s rot, in my opinion—he got it out of that rag The Daily Trident. But did you notice that Saxon called you ‘sir’? They think we are officer-cadets in these goat-skins. Incidentally, I heard from one of the Germans this morning that the London Highlanders are supposed to be going back to St. Omer, and start an Officers’ School for Kitchener’s Army.”
“I know how they got that,” said a man that Phillip recognised from No. 3 Company. “The Germans listen to what our chaps signal on their buzzers. When about a fortnight ago Harvey-Lowther, in our company, was ordered to report to H.Q., his commission having come through, they knew somehow; and put a board in their trenches, saying, ‘Congratulations Mr. Harvey-Lowther’. They’ve got an electric device which picks up our Morse messages.”
“Good lord!”
“They’re damned efficient,” said Church. “Did you hear that the Mayor of Armentières was shot as a spy? They found a secret telephone in his cellar, going underground to the German lines.”
“Then there is the case of a farmer plowing with grey horses in a field next to a battery of our heavies near our transport lines. His furrows were in the shape of an arrow pointing straight at the battery. A Taube overhead saw it, and soon afterwards the guns were shelled, and blown to hell. The farmer was shot as a spy. Yes, the Germans were well prepared for this war,” said a
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