THE sound of the axes has ceased. The prisoners throw their coats over their shoulders, and taking their tools—that they must place at the feet of the sentinels—their knapsacks, bowls and tins, they wait for the roll to be called. Every one is there. At the order of the commander they go towards a clearing where the men can be easily watched during the break which lasts till 1.30.

Our soldier prisoners have quickly finished their meagre repast which the parsimonious German Government doles out to them. Then almost all of them stretch themselves on the ground in the genial rays of the sun and give their bodies a well-earned rest. Soon their eyes are closed; sleep overtakes them.

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Seated on the trunk of a felled oak, two young fellows listen to a third, who is translating an article from a German newspaper, brought that morning by a kindly jailer. While eating they talk over the news and criticise the communiquÉ of the German staff at Berlin. All three—the interpreter of the fatigue party and the two who were listening to him—had come of their own accord to this fatigue work in order to escape the monotony of the camp, and, by working, to seek a palliative from the ennui that was killing them.

The sentinel who was on duty while his comrades were taking their meal approached the little group and deferentially asked: “What news?”

The German communiquÉ that day was very concise. The interpreter pointed it out to the sentinel, curtly enough to make him understand that he had no wish, for the moment at least, to enter into conversation. He was occupied in translating a long and subtle article about the torpedoing of the Lusitania. But the German took no notice; he wished to talk, to hold forth; he broached another subject, and inquired about the quality of the food.

“Schmeckt es gut?”

A cry of horror and indignation greeted this question.

“It is pig’s food, it is shameful to feed human creatures with such stuff.”

“Oh, you French, you are hard to please!”

“You think we are hard to please not to like rotten food?” asked the interpreter.

Decidedly this subject of conversation had no more success than the other.

Silently our prisoners continued their meal; but the German did not go away. He stood there motionless in front of them, with a stupid air, watching them open a box of preserves and cut up a French loaf, the whiteness of which called forth his admiration.

“You have good bread,” said he.

“In France we don’t make any other. Even the poorest eat this bread. Just compare it with your K. bread. You will have a nice stomach at the end of the war, you and your children.”

“Ah yes! The children, it is very sad for them.”

“You have some? Many?”

“Seven,” replied the sentinel.

“And how do you manage to feed them?”

“The allowance that my wife receives is not enough; everything is beyond our means. It is misery.”

“In France the wives of the soldiers receive a much higher sum, and yet the food is cheaper and more plentiful than here. Look at the white bread and the preserves that we receive. France is rich, and we can still fight for a long time.”

“Yes, indeed, it is a sad war for us, and when shall we see the end of it?”

“The end!” A boisterous laugh rang out in the peaceful air. “The end! but we are not ready to see it yet—the end!”

“But they tell us that in two months the Russians will ask for peace, and that then we shall beat the French.”

The interpreter slowly shrugged his shoulder as though with pity.

“Have they not always been telling you since the beginning of hostilities that in two months’ time the war will be finished, and during the year it has lasted you are always there open-mouthed, swallowing all the newspapers tell you—the newspapers that are under the control of a severe censor. And you still believe it; you really are naÏve. The war is only beginning.”

“Ah, you say that because you are well off here. I understand that it is all the same to you. The war is finished for you. You will not be ‘Kaput.’”

“Indeed we are not. You think that we are well off here? What, in this depressing tranquillity, in this state of uselessness which makes our hearts revolt when we think of our comrades who from the very beginning have been and are risking their lives at every moment. We prefer the painful and risky experiences at the front. We would much rather be on the other side of the trenches with our rifles in our hands watching you come on.”

The Boche opened his eyes in astonishment, but incredulous he broke in with:

“Das glaube ich nicht.”

“But in spite of everything we prefer our place to yours, for the victory will be ours. The longer the war, the greater and more certain our success. We were not ready in France, we did not believe in the war. We are only now beginning to be organised. The English are doing the same. For months we have been holding out, but behind terrible things are preparing. Then the seas are not shut to us as they are to you. We can continue our commerce and get richer, while you ... well, if the war lasts much longer it is your finances that will be ‘Kaput.’ Then with a formidable army, well equipped and well fed, we shall enter your country and you will suffer the fate of Belgium.”

The unfortunate sentinel bit his pipe and seemed embarrassed. He must have regretted coming to speak to the prisoners. Perhaps he thought that his conversation with depressed captives would have given him the courage of which he had great need, for he was soon to return to the front. His blue eyes wandered towards the horizon; they were full of fear, as if they saw the horrible visions that our comrade had called up.

The three speakers had recognised in this sentinel a victim whom they were unwilling to let go, so they became talkative.

What rÔle could they play in that land of exile? First of all, to keep themselves and their companions courageous and strong. They must not let themselves be cast down by adversity, by imprisonment, by being far from their own people, by the anguish they felt for their family and country, by their privations and the petty tyranny of those who guarded them. They ought, as much as they could, to comfort their companions in the misery of captivity. They must inspire those who by themselves were unable to find the moral courage without which man fails.

But this trio seems to have felt that its mission did not end there. If they could sow seeds of terror and cowardice in the hearts of those who guarded them, they would have worked for the benefit of their country; a prisoner could not wish to make himself more useful. Therefore they tried to implant doubt, terror, confusion and discouragement in the minds of these simple and credulous Germans.

To-day they had found their victim, and did not let him go till they had accomplished their purpose.

“You have already been under fire?”

“Yes, in Poland against the Russians; there I was wounded two months ago.”

“Then you will be here for a long time?”

The German, who did not wish to appear too feeble before his conquered enemies, pulled himself together and in a tone which he tried to make firm confided to them what was troubling him.

“I leave this evening.”

“What, you leave this evening? so soon as that?”

“But you are scarcely set up again. That was just what I said to a comrade yesterday, pointing you out to him, that you must have been terribly wounded. What? You are going away this evening? Your country must be very short of men. They are sending you to fight the Cossacks. Well, to tell you the truth, I am glad it is you instead of me.”

“Ah yes!” sighed the German; “they are terrible, they burn everything on their way.”

“Well, there is this much good about it, you need not fear the cold, since it is summer.”

“You have not the cold to fear,” said the youngest Frenchman, “that is true, but in your place I would rather have one or two frozen feet, or even die of wounds, than be carried off by typhus. It is a terrible illness, that kills those that catch it without exception. You know that your soldiers are dying like flies there?”

“I have been vaccinated.”

“Vaccinated? Go along with you! You know as well as I do the uselessness of inoculation. It doesn’t make you immune. It has only a moral effect. Your troops would refuse to go to the Russian front if they had not confidence in this vaccine, the efficacity of which is, alas! nothing. They would not go there to seek a terrible and fatal death. Your officers and doctors know it well.”

“In any case I am not going back to the Eastern front.”

“You are lucky. I congratulate you.”

“Lucky?” replied another. “Well, perhaps. As for me, I confess it frankly, if I could choose I would rather go and brave the typhus than our French 75’s. You have not yet seen them at work, it is true; you don’t know anything about it. But your comrades must have spoken of them to you. Ah, you will quickly learn to recognise their ‘boom, boom,’ and you will give me news of them. May I be hanged if you return whole.”

The sentinel, with a frightened air, looked at them one after another.

Yes, certainly he had heard of the 75. His comrades had told him enough of the ravages it made. Only the other day the Cologne Gazette had said that such weapons ought to be forbidden, that the 75 was an engine of the devil, that it was inhuman to make use of it.

“Come, don’t you Germans speak of inhuman things, when you have ravaged Belgium with fire and sword; when you have sunk ships that carried peaceful citizens—women, children and old men; when you have invented asphyxiating gas!”

For the first time, no doubt, the Boche had a feeling of pity in his heart for the innocent victims that war has cut down. He shook his head sadly and exclaimed:

“Das ist traurig.”

For the first time the Boche saw Belgium in flames, its women and children tortured and assassinated, the peaceful ships sunk on the high seas and their innocent charges the prey of the waves. He heard the heart-rending cries of mothers, the moans of the children whose hands had been cut off, and who, mad with fright and pain, and weeping bitterly, looked at the bleeding stumps. For the first time he was ashamed of his nation. In order to quiet his German conscience he, in his turn, tried to reproach the French for crimes committed by them and their allies. Perhaps also he hoped that the prisoners, by denials, would calm the terror that the name of “Moroccan” called up in his heart.

“With you,” said he, half aggressively, “you have negroes who are terrible, so one says. They are barbarians.”

If he expected to be reassured he was cruelly deceived. With an indifferent air the interpreter answered him:

“Ah yes, the Moroccans; yes, indeed, they don’t take prisoners! What can one do? It is their law. But you know they only slay the combatants, they have never raised their hand against civilians. Their savagery is excusable, for they have not ... what do you call it?... Kultur. If they cut off your head, be sure it is not from cruelty, but simply because their priests have taught them that a man is not dead so long as he has his head on his shoulders. What one has difficulty in understanding in a European, a German, for example, one excuses in a negro, because he is not civilised. For my part, and I am sure you are of the same opinion, I don’t see any harm in a Moroccan cutting off your head when you are dead or even wounded.”

The Boche shuddered. Did he feel at that moment the cold steel piercing his flesh? He did not say.

Wishing to chase these dreadful pictures from his mind, and as if to deceive himself, he continued:

“There is a rumour that we shall be sent to France towards La BassÉe. There we shall not see the negroes, but more likely the English.”

“I hope so for your sake,” said the youngest prisoner; “though, according to all accounts, La BassÉe is a bad corner for you, if you remember the losses you had there six months ago. The English are splendid shots, so I will give you a piece of advice as a friend, don’t let them see the top of your head above the parapet.”

“But, I say,” interrupted the elder Frenchman, “what about the Hindoos?”

“What does he say?” asked the sentinel.

“Ah, it is true! How unlucky you are.” (The “Hindoos” was immediately translated to him.) “You don’t know that the English have recruited a formidable army in India? And the Hindoos are much more to be feared than our peaceful Moroccans. Indeed, with them it is never safe to shut your eyes through the night or the day either. Their cunning, their agility, their suppleness is something extraordinary, and they manage to get into your lines without being seen or heard. Do you know how they proceed? They undress completely and rub their whole body carefully with oil, then, taking a long cutlass between their teeth, they creep over the ground. Not a tuft of grass trembles, not a sound betrays their approach, they are on you and strangle you before you have an idea of their presence. They are marvellous soldiers. They have been seen to take hundreds of metres of trenches and massacre all the inhabitants without a cry being heard.”

“It is horrible,” groaned the sentinel; “one ought not to send savages to Europe.”

“Bah, some Europeans are not worth more than they. The hand-to-hand fight amongst savages is frequent.”

Then, to rub things in, one of the prisoners repeats:

“You understand; they arrive naked; the oil permits them to creep without being heard, and as they also take the precaution of rubbing their bodies with earth, they cannot be distinguished from the yellowish stretch over which they glide. And to think they have disembarked twelve million at Marseilles.”

“What! What do you say?”

“I said twelve million,” answered the Frenchman phlegmatically and with assurance. “It is official. Don’t you read your papers? It was written in capital letters in the Cologne Gazette a few days ago. They have been drilled in India, and last winter in Egypt; they will come to France and stay till the beginning of the cold weather. There are twelve million. You know that Marseilles is universally noted for its soap, and that there are very important factories there. Well, the Hindoos are there, and are already anointing their bodies with the soap of Marseilles. They will soon be ready, and will probably arrive at the front at the same time as you. I wish you joy.”

“Ach Gott!” The sentinel goes off with his head bent. His pipe had gone out, his cheeks had still a little colour, but his eyes were mournful, full of unspeakable sadness.

Twelve million Hindoos, negroes, the 75’s, and the typhus! Certainly he would never return. The Hindoos were already a nightmare to him, he saw them creeping over the soil from which they were not to be distinguished, standing up, threatening, behind trees. It was horrible! He was going off that night never to come back. He would fall a victim to the Hindoos before he had time to say a last prayer for his family. Ah, why had he not died in Poland? It was terrible to go and meet this death, which he felt was coming and yet which would take him by surprise. Ah, it was a bad war!

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The sentinel who came to relieve his comrade had to strike him twice on the shoulder before he roused him to tell him to go and eat.

He jumped as though he had been in a dream; he looked at his colleague without understanding, mute and terrified, for between the speaker and himself he saw standing the fatal Hindoo in whose hands lay his destiny.

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When he sat down to his frugal meal the Boche had to own that he had no appetite.