MY PRISONER.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIX, Issue 11, 12 January 1918, Page 13

MY PRISONER.

NOT A SPECIMEN TO BE PROUD OF. He was not a prisoner to be proud of. He was not- a prisoner I would have chosen myself,- but he thrust. himself upon mc and would not go away. Even when I threw a tin of pork and beans at him he only ducked ana looked reproachfully .at mc through a pair of large round spectacles. When he adopted mc I was very'busy repairing a telephone wire so that the Boche shells could cut it into nice-, curly lengths. The infantry had just " gone, "over the top," leaving an untidy mess on top of the ridge, and I was struggling with half a yard of adhesive tape and a pair of pliers when something tripped over my wire, mixed itself up with the sticky tape which dangled from dirty fingers held above the head, and murmured: "Mercy! lam a prisoner. I submit. I desire to be taken away." I picked the tape from its .fingers, looked it full in the spectacles, and saw it ,was a Fritz—a very unhappy, smallsized Fritz entirely surrounded by clay. "Go away. Can't you see I'm busy?" I said aptly plagiarising. " "I am your prisoner," he repeated, wiping the clay from his moustache. "You're a liar," I replied severely. "You run away and be somebody else's prisoner. 'You are 'not the sort of prisoner that appeals to mc: I am not having any prisoners - thrust upon mc. Besides, I'm busy—very busy. This is one of our busiest days. Give mc. hack that yard of wire from around your leg." He looked nonplussed for the moment, but only for the moment. A sly smile cracked the clay on his face, and, diving into a pocket, he produced a silver watch, a cheap Swiss watch. "For you," he beaerad. "What for?" I inquired. "I'm your prisoner," he said confidently. x The man's persistence worried mc. * "Look here," I said, "let's have this out. I'm not a collector of prisoners. Signallers are not allowed to have prisoners. I don't want you; I hate the sight of you. Go and give yourself up to somebody of your own size." He kept the 'smile full on and continued to dangle the watch. It was then I threw the pork and beans at his head. Thereupon he burst into tears which made a streaky canal down his cheeks and flowed into his moustache. Between sobs he told mc that he had walked through hell-fire, he had fallen into, shell-holes-, he had tripped over wire (my wire, I reminded him) .his feet were blistered, and his.head ached, and he was weary—-oh, so weary of the war. I told him I could not help his troubles. If he chose to get born on the. wrong side of a war like this, he must take the consequences. "But I'm your prisoner,'.' he insisted, picking tape from his fingers. The man's stubbornness irritated mc. I talked to him seriously. I asked him if he really thought he. was the sort, of prisoner that any self-respecting soldier could be proud of.. I asked .him what he had done that. „he . should be made, a prisoner, did "he inflict-, himself on a perfect. stranger and a ewbrn enemy .at that. I even. Appealed to his better nature. ' I recalled the happy days when he had, imbibed beer more or less, like a .human being, and I implored .him to go. like a good German and find a nice quiet shell-hole and cease to be a blot on the landscape. . Whereupon he wept some more, and. the tears dripped, from his moustache. I told him that if he cried over my wire he. would [cause a short circuit. Then he lost .his. temper. ' "I'm your prisoner,", he snapped savagely. "I insist on being your prisoner. .It is the fortune of war. You. shall take mc to safety and give mc food.". I gazed reflectively at the tin of pork and beans, and up went his hands. "Mercy!" he murmured". Then—l am ashamed to confess it—l gave in. The man's persistence, wore mc down. Giving him a reel of cable-to carry and holding the tin of pork and beans at the "Present!" I marched him to the nearest dressing station, wishing that the next shell.would hide us from the public gaze. "What have you got there, corporal?" inquired an RA..M.C. man as we turned the corner of a captured pill-box. . "I have here my first and last prisoner," I said. "He was mrfie'and I give him to you. All that I can say in explanation is that he was not of my own choosing. He came to mc out of the clay, and I wash my hands of him."' My prisoner scowled. "English swine!" he said. Then, turing to the RA.M.C. man, he smiled sweetly and offered him the Swiss watch. —-JJL, in the "Daily Mail."