Free Kipling's Choice by Geert Spillebeen

anything on me. Ugly Hun, I won't tell you anything, ever, do you hear?
John is seized with a painful cramp in his chest. Coughing and choking, he spatters blood all around. The German jumps back, cursing.
    The pain ebbs quickly and John feels a strange laugh coming on.
I can't betray anything at all,
he realizes,
even if I wanted to. How can I talk? You've shot me to pieces.
For a moment it's a crazy, restful thought.
    Now what? They're beginning to turn me over. What are they looking for? They're getting snappy, they're at the end of their patience. Oh, just listen to them bark at each other. I wish they wouldn't keep waving their
weapons around. This will come to a bad end. Mowgli! Mowgli, help me! The
Bandar-log
have nabbed me!
    The men stop their bickering and are quiet, all of a sudden.
    How is it possible?
John reproaches himself.
I hope no one finds out that I panicked! Be strong, fellow. Remember your rank. Even the enemy must treat an officer with respect. That was the agreement, wasn't it?
he thinks nervously.
Listen up now, or I'll call Mowgli!
    John could have done without that little boy from his past. Mowgli, the "man-cub" who was raised by wolves, was the hero of his father's
The Jungle Book.
    Once,
John now realizes,
Mowgli also fell into the clutches of the enemy, the Monkey-People, the
Bandar-log.
Mowgli—God, how I cursed that little chap. I've never felt any kinship with that jungle brat. But when there are Germans pointing guns at your head, that changes the picture; you start having second thoughts about it all.
    When John was a schoolboy he was always being compared to the man-cub from the jungle, even though he tried to avoid it. There was absolutely nothing wild or exotic about him, with his pince-nez and skinny body. He
did
enjoy some of his fathers stories, but he hated
The Jungle Book
like the plague. Mowgli had been pursuing him since childhood, always and everywhere, even when he first joined the army. And now Mowgli suddenly pops up on his own accord.
    Â 
    "Hey, Kipling!"
    John sees himself as a ten-year-old again, a beanpole at Saint Aubyns Prep School in Rottingdean.
    "Look at him there, Mowgli the Frog!" Fingers point at him.
    "Afraid of the big bad wolf, man-thing?"
    Those same troublemakers practically fell over when they heard that this slender little four-eyed kid, this young Master Kipling, was not a bit afraid of the dark. They learned about this after the night when John stole out of the dormitory to drive away evil spirits for his friend Beresford. Ever since that night he could count on being given a little credit, at least.
    "It's a shame that I'm not good at sports," John daydreams. "My eyes, you see, these nearsighted eyes. Although you know, Daddo, no one can beat me at swimming."
    "Ha ha! Of course. Swimming isn't difficult for a frog!"
    "Yes, they keep on teasing me, Daddo. I'll just have to get used to it. And why do you find it so necessary to torture me with your famous books and poems? I've often written to you about it. When
Puck
appeared, naturally the schoolmasters knew to fish out that instructive closing poem, 'The Children's Song.' Every single day at school all of England, no, what am I saying, the whole British Empire sings the song written by the great Rudyard Kipling. I sing it, too. Certainly I sing it, for the schoolmasters make very sure that I do. 'Kipling this, Kipling that.' I just
hate
it! And then there is 'If,' another big hit. Every single boarding school has the verses of 'If hanging on the wall, either painted, framed, or engraved. For punishment we have to write it out until our fingers are numb. Why do you do this to me, Daddo?"
    Â 
    Hey, don't touch me! What does that fellow want from me? Ow, that hurts! If you want to empty my pockets, you're too late, you fool. They've already run off with everything. Though I don't know what they could have stolen. Some pounds, at most?
    "
Hauptmann, hier, eine Karte!
" comes a voice.
    My map! That