# Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3823/Our War Story

OUR WAR STORY.
The Dreadful Doom of Bertram Borstal.
I.
Bertram Borstal turned out his pockets and spread their contents on the table before him. There were seven postage stamps perforated with the initials of his late employers, one threepenny-bit in silver, twopence in copper, and a Bank of England note for 10s. "Irretrievably ruined!" he muttered with closed lips. "I will offer my services to my country. I will enlist."
He enlisted successfully until he reached the medical examination. The doctor thrust a shoe-horn into Bertram's mouth. "Count up to 99," he said. "Ug—koog—hee—haw—" Bertram began.
"That'll do," remarked the doctor, closing the jaws with a snap. "Any constitutional ailment?"
Bertram blushed heavily. "Only chronic dyspepsia," he admitted at length. The doctor gave a long whistle. Mistaking the sound a taxicab drew up.
"You'd better jump in," he said kindly, taking Bertram's hand and putting it inadvertently into his own pocket. "I regret to say I cannot pass you for the Army."
"Ploughed!" exclaimed our hero. "But if I cannot go as a soldier I will go as a spy. Drive me to Wigson's," he called to the taxi-driver as he leapt on to a passing bus.
Half-an-hour later Bertram, disguised in the uniform of a spy, turned up the Strand and his coat-collar simultaneously and walked rapidly to Charing Cross station. He just managed to scramble into the 2.19 as it steamed from the platform at 3.7.
II.
That same evening (or the next) Bertram got out of the train at Kartoffelnberg, hired a tandem and drove to the German lines. He went straight to the General. "I shall be obliged if you will kindly tell me the number and disposition of your forces, and how and when you propose to advance."
He spoke in English, but the General—formerly Military Attaché at Appenrodt's—happily understood him.
"Certainly," he replied. "Perhaps you would care to examine this map and plan of campaign?"
Bertram thanked him, and commenced to trace them upon his spare vest.
"Don't bother to do that," said the General. "Take this set of duplicates. The disposition of our forces is clearly marked in red ink, and their numerical strength certified by a chartered accountant. The only detail omitted is the number of women and children that will be placed in the firing-line. Today's bag has not yet been reported."
An aide-de-camp galloped into the tent, flung himself from his exhausted mule and saluted.
"In the name of our noble and august Kaiser," he began, "I have the honour to inform you that we have to-day captured 47 charwomen, 16 bedridden octogenerarians and 21 babies in arms."
"Zwanzigkeit!" exclaimed the General excitedly. "Place them in the forefront of our brave Bogey Head Hussars, and order the advance for ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
​The aide-de-camp saluted, flung him-self on to a fresh mule and galloped hell for leather to the canteen.
"I am much obliged for the information you have given me," said Bertram politely. "It is of paramount importance."
"You're quite welcome," remarked the General. "By-the-by, what do you want it for?"
Our hero rapidly shaved off Wigson's moustache and drew himself up proudly. "I am a spy," he said.
"I suspected as much," commented the General. "Kindly touch that bell on the mantelpiece behind you."
Bertram touched it; it was as cold as ice.
"See if it will ring," suggested the General.
Bertram seized it by the handle and shook it violently. In a moment or two it rang. A sentry entered.
"Einzweidreivierfünf," said the General, "and riddle him with bullets at eight to-morrow morning."
III.
Early the next morning a knock sounded on the door of Bertram's cell. The doomed man crossed the room and shot back the bolt. An officer armed with a howitzer entered.
"I am instructed to inform you," he said, "that as you are shortly to be shot you are entitled, according to custom, to choose whatever you wish for breakfast."
"Thank you," replied Bertram, "a cup of weak tea and a rusk. Unfortunately I am a chronic dyspeptic, or I would take fuller advantage of your kind hospitality."
A devilish gleam shot from the other's eyes as he heard those words.
"As you will be dead in an hour," he said, "the fact of your being a dyspeptic need not trouble you any more than if you were an acrostic. Let me therefore suggest that you try a sausage or a knuckle of pork."
Bertram reeled against the piano. Here was an opportunity to gratify his palate without regard to the consequences. Quickly he made up his mind.
"Bring me then," he said, "a plate of sausage and sauerkraut, a slab of marzipan and some Limburger cheese."
IV.
It wanted but a few minutes to eight, and Bertram Borstal, with steady nerves, waited for the striking of the cuckoo-clock in the prison tower. Once again a knock sounded upon the cell door, and with the utmost sang-froid he drew the key from his pocket and unlocked it. The honorary secretary of Germany entered, preceded by three cripples and a Mother-Superior.
"I am ready," declared Bertram, calm but pale, "and resigned to my fate."
"I am happy to say," said the secretary, "that I am unable to accept your resignation. We recognise the fact that you are only a spy, and therefore cannot strictly be said to be bearing arms against us. We have therefore to apologise for having arrested you; but at the same time I would ask you kindly to bear in mind that at these times we have much to think about, and mistakes will happen. You are free."
"Free?" repeated Bertram, unable to believe either of his ears.
"Yes, you are free," said the secretary, "and I am empowered to add that under the circumstances no charge will be made for your breakfast. Hochachtungsvoll."
He withdrew, and Bertram, picking up his umbrella and gloves, quickly followed him.
V.
Half an hour later Bertram had again entered the German lines, imploring to be shot for pity's sake. But it was too late; all the rifles were in use in the firing-line. It was not till he heard this that Bertram Borstal, racked with indigestion, realised the atrocious barbarity of his reprieve.