Action Front | Page 2

was boxed into small compartments by the traverses, and in
the next section Macalister found three Germans waiting for him. One
of them asked him something in German, and on Macalister shaking his
head to show that he did not understand, he was signaled to approach,
and a German ran deftly through his pockets, fingering his waist, and,
searching for a money-belt, made a short exclamation of disgust, and
signed to the prisoner to move on round the next traverse, at the same
time shouting to the Germans there, and passing Macalister on at the
bayonet point. This performance was repeated exactly in all its details
through the next half-dozen traverses, the only exception being that in
one an excitable German, making violent motions with a bayonet as he
appeared round the corner, insisted on his holding his hands over his
head.
At about the sixth traverse a German spoke to him in fairly good,
although strongly accented, English. He asked Macalister his rank and
regiment, and Macalister, knowing that the name on his shoulder-straps
would expose any attempt at deceit, gave these. Another man asked
something in German, which apparently he requested the English
speaker to translate.
"He say," interpreted the other, "Why you English war have made?"

Macalister stared at him. "I'm no English," he returned composedly.
"I'm a Scot."
"That the worse is," said the interpreter angrily. "Why have it your
business of the Scot?"
Macalister knitted his brows over this. "You mean, I suppose, what
business is it of ours! Well, it's just Scotland's a bit of Britain, so when
Britain's at war, we are at war."
A demand for an interpretation of this delayed the proceedings a little,
and then the English speaker returned to the attack.
"For why haf Britain this war made!" he demanded.
"We didna' make it," returned Macalister. "Germany began it." Excited
comment on the translation.
"If you'll just listen to me a minute," said Macalister deliberately, "I can
prove I am right. Sir Edward Grey----" Bursts of exclamation greeted
the name, and Macalister grinned slightly.
"You'll no be likin' him," he said. "An' I can weel understan' it."
The questioner went off on a different line. "Haf your soldiers know,"
he asked, "that the German fleet every day a town of England
bombard?"
Macalister stared at him. "Havers!" he said abruptly.
The German went on to impart a great deal of astonishing
information--of the German advance on Petrograd, the invasion of
Egypt, the extermination of the Balkan Expedition, the complete
blockade of England, the decimation of the British fleet by submarines.
After some vain attempts to argue the matter and disprove the
statements, Macalister resigned himself to contemptuous silence, only
rousing when the German spoke of England and English, to correct him
to Britain and British.

When at last their interest flagged, the Germans ordered him to move
on. Macalister asked where he was going and what was to be done with
him, and received the scant comfort that he was being sent along to an
officer who would send him back as a prisoner, if he did not have him
killed--as German prisoners were killed by the English.
"British, you mean," Macalister corrected again. "And, besides that, it's
a lie."
He was told to go on; but as he moved be saw a foot-long piece of
barbed wire lying in the trench bottom. He asked gravely whether he
would be allowed to take it, and, receiving a somewhat puzzled and
grudging assent, picked it up, carefully rolled it in a small coil, and
placed it in a side jacket pocket. He derived immense gratification and
enjoyment at the ensuing searches he had to undergo, and the explosive
German that followed the diving of a hand into the barbed-wire pocket.
He arrived at last at an officer and at a point where a communication
trench entered the firing trench. The officer in very mangled English
was attempting to extract some information, when he was interrupted
by the arrival from the communication trench of a small party led by an
officer, a person evidently of some importance, since the other officer
sprang to attention, clicked his heels, saluted stiffly, and spoke in a tone
of respectful humility. The new arrival was a young man in a
surprisingly clean and beautifully fitting uniform, and wearing a helmet
instead of the cloth cap commonly worn in the trenches. His face was
not a particularly pleasant one, the eyes close set, hard, and cruel, the
jaw thin and sharp, the mouth thin-lipped and shrewish. He spoke to
Macalister in the most perfect English.
"Well, swine-hound," he said, "have you any reason to give why I
should not shoot you?" Macalister made no reply. He disliked
exceedingly the look of the new-comer, and had no wish to