LOCKED DOORS
A night and a day spent in a bare freight car, with cold wind blowing
through the cracks, is uncomfortable traveling, but Bob and his
companions would have thought little of that had circumstances been
different. It was the knowledge of where they were going--as much as
they guessed of it--that made the cold and the monotonous jogging along
the rails almost unbearable.
Bob could have had the adjoining empty car all to himself, in
consideration of his rank, instead of sharing this one with a dozen
French soldiers and non-commissioned officers. But he had not the least
desire for his own company just then, and the friendly faces of the
captured poilus were the only bright spot in the dreary darkness of
his prison. At the other end of the car were four German soldiers and
a sergeant. Only one of these at a time paid any especial attention to
the prisoners, and he merely sat stolidly on guard beside his rifle.
The sliding doors were closed and bolted, and there was no possible
chance of escape.
All night Bob had lain on the hard, jolting floor trying to sleep,
hoping for dreams of something else beside the bitter reality. Sleep
would not come, so he tried to lie still and think of nothing but
the jogging wheels and the creaking timbers, until a light, gleaming
through the cracks from outside, or a sigh from one of his fellow
prisoners brought him wide awake again with a sharp pang of misery.
His thoughts would not keep long away from the dismal future, and look
ahead as he might with desperate search, he could see nothing to bring
any comfort. All his hopes and eager ambition to give good service to
America in the coming struggle had in one wretched day been shattered.
He was disarmed, captured and helpless in German hands, and nothing
that he had heard or read in the past three years gave a reassuring
sound to the words, or could make his fate other than a hard one,
without prospect of change or betterment. How long would the war last?
No one could have told him that, and it was the only knowledge that
held any hope of freedom or happiness.
As the long hours wore by, Bob went over in his restless mind all the
past year and what it had brought him. In the ordinary course of events
he would have been a first classman now, taking part in the routine
of West Point life, and looking forward to Christmas leave. When the
German army had crossed the Belgian border during his plebe summer,
in all the excited discussion of it at West Point he had never dreamed
that the fourth year of the war would find him inside a German prison.
At last the cold and discomfort of his position dulled his thoughts,
and changed them to a weary longing for warmth and food. At dawn the
slow train jerked itself to a standstill and the guard pushed open one
of the wide doors. A faint light came in from the leaden morning sky,
and showed a town half a mile beyond the tracks, and a small wooden
signal-house or watering station close at hand. The guard brought bread
and water from the house and distributed it among the prisoners, in
rather meagre quantities, but it was eagerly welcomed by the tired,
hungry men. The soldier who gave Bob his portion offered him water from
a tin cup instead of from the pail given to the others. Almost at once
the door was closed again and the train went on. The guard retired
to their end of the car to munch their bread, but one of them said
something to the prisoners in German as he passed, accompanied by a
warning shake of the head. Nobody understood him, and a general inquiry
arose among them as to what he meant, giving a spark of interest for
the moment to the dreary journey. Bob thought he guessed the man's
meaning and, summoning his French, said to the little group near him:
"I think he means we must keep some of this bread for dinner."
A dozen faces were turned in his direction, and nearly as many voices
answered, "_Merci, mon officier_," with smiles of acknowledgment.
Bob's notice and help seemed to be received by these forlorn and
dispirited Frenchmen with the liveliest pleasure, and evidently they
were glad enough of a superior to question, for after a few moments of
whispered conversation, one of them approached Bob and, squatting down
beside him, said respectfully:
"May I make an inquiry, _mon officier_?"
Bob nodded, looking into the man's tired face and at the dirty bandage
wound about his throat.
"Can you tell us where we are going?" asked the soldier doubtfully. "Is
it to Germany?"
"I don't know which part, but it is certainly Germany," Bob responded.
"After these long hours we must be well inside the German border. I
suppose we shall be taken to the nearest prison camp."
The soldier gave a nod of agreement, rising to rejoin his comrades with
a murmur of thanks, but Bob held him back. "What is the matter there?"
he asked, pointing to the man's throat.
"Only a slight wound. It is not very painful," said the Frenchman,
smiling and touching the bandage cautiously as he spoke.
"Are any of the others wounded?" inquired Bob, getting up from the
floor.
"Yes, _mon Lieutenant_, several of us have small wounds. That fellow
with the empty sleeve has his arm in a sling, and one other had a
bullet through his leg. They received first dressing at Petit-Bois
after we were taken."
"We may be on this train all day," said Bob, speaking careful French to
make his meaning clear. "Let me look at the wounds, and perhaps I can
make you more comfortable."
No one made any objection when this was explained. The man with
the empty sleeve was pale and suffering from the exposure of his
wounded arm to the cold, but he offered himself to Bob's unskilled
ministrations without a murmur.
Before unwrapping the bandages Bob walked over to where the German
guard sat or leaned against the side of the car. At his approach the
sergeant on duty stood up with visible reluctance.
"Have you any dressings--bandages--I could use for the wounded
prisoners?" asked Bob, speaking as distinctly as he could.
The man shook his head uncomprehendingly. Then, as Bob struggled to
recall the little German he had picked up from Karl and Elizabeth, the
sergeant spoke to a soldier who was sitting on the floor near by and
motioned to him. The soldier got up and, approaching Bob, said to him:
"Speak English. I can understand you, Herr Lieutenant."
Bob repeated his request. The man shook his head, looking toward the
Frenchmen with little interest in his face. "We have nothing," he said
at last.
"What time shall we reach our destination?" Bob inquired. "How soon do
we stop?" he altered the question, as the man looked blankly at him.
"Ach, to-night, I think."
Bob nodded and went back to his fellow prisoners. He did the best
he could for the wounded men, with the help of a little water, his
handkerchief, and some strips torn from his shirt. The first-aid
packets carried by the French soldiers had been used for their
dressings at Petit-Bois, and Bob's had been retained by his German
captor there, as had everything else in his possession except his
money, which was carefully hidden in his coat lining.
After an hour's hard work, not unaccompanied by a good deal of pain
on the part of the willing patients, he felt that he had done what he
could toward improving their condition. With the realization of how
little considerate treatment was to be expected by prisoners in German
hands, he thanked his stars that he was at least whole and unwounded,
with strength to face the worst.
When he had finished his task he sat down again by the car wall and
went off into another dismal revery, broken only by pangs of hunger
which brought to mind with tantalizing vividness the hearty satisfying
food he had enjoyed such a short time before. He thought of Benton,
too, and wondered what had become of him, and whether the Germans'
respect for his prowess would bring him better or worse treatment at
their hands. One thing he was sure of, they would do their utmost to
extract from him some of the priceless information he had gathered
in the past six months. Equally certain it was that they would learn
nothing.
It was Sunday, Bob suddenly remembered. At home, on Governor's Island,
his people would about now be starting peacefully to St. Cornelius'
Chapel for the morning service. Their thoughts and prayers would be
with him, he knew, but they would think of him as in the squadron's
camp in the midst of friends and allies. He began calculating how long
it would take for news of his disappearance to reach home. Taking into
account the inquiries made along a portion of the French and British
fronts to ascertain if he and Benton had come down anywhere behind
their own lines, he thought it might be several days before word was
ordered cabled to America. As long again, perhaps, before the cable
reached there. He rather hoped for a delay. What good would it do them
to know that he was lost? They would think the worst, though it was
hard to realize just then that there was a worse fate which could have
befallen him.
"Perhaps I can get word home that I am alive and a prisoner," he
encouraged himself, though with no great confidence in any means of
communication which might come his way. "It will spoil their Christmas,
whichever they hear," he thought, with a sudden boyish longing at the
word for a sight of home, made ready for Christmas, trimmed with holly,
the big fir tree in the dining-room and each one of the family planning
to add something to the day's celebration. The Gordons always managed
to have a good time at Christmas, and their house was usually full of
visitors on Christmas Day. Last year there had been a heavy snow-storm,
and Bob had taken William out on his new sled until William's cheeks
were so red and white Elizabeth thought they were frost-bitten and
would not let him go near the fire when they came in. Cold seemed
jolly and different when there was a warm house to go back to. Bob
shivered at this thought, and shifted his back from a wide chink in the
boards, but Elizabeth's name brought with it a rush of gratitude as he
remembered his hour of deadly peril at Karl's hands.
At about dusk that evening the train stopped and the guards flung open
the doors. They were in the yard of a large railway station, and on
the tracks beside the car appeared a couple of officials and half a
dozen soldiers with fixed bayonets. A little more bread was distributed
among the prisoners, after which they were ordered to get out and form
in double file, Bob to bring up the rear. Any movement was welcome to
the men's cramped and chilled limbs, and even the weakest got up and
willingly clambered down to the ground. The officials exchanged a few
words with the sergeant in charge of the prisoners, who then gave the
order to march. The escort of soldiers from the station fell in with
the others in a double line about the prisoners and the party marched
briskly out of the yard and through the station, where a scant number
of travelers looked curiously after them, and on into the dimly lighted
streets of the town.
Bob could not distinguish much through the dusk, except that the place
appeared to be fairly large, with cobbled streets and crowds of people,
all hurrying homeward at this hour, talking rapid German and exclaiming
at sight of the prisoners as they passed, though Bob thought they must
be a fairly familiar sight by this time. American prisoners would be
a novelty, but they could not know him to be one. He looked longingly
at the shop windows in search of something more to eat, but he saw
nothing, and could not have stopped to buy it if he had.
In a few minutes they turned off into a side street, which soon
became a road leading into the open country. Half an hour's quick
march through the thickening darkness brought into sight a group
of one-storied, barrack-like buildings from which scattered lights
glimmered. The prisoners were led through a wooden gateway, along
passages made by enclosing the space with wire fencing, and finally to
one of the low buildings, where the sentry on guard at that point threw
open a door at a word from the sergeant in command.
They entered a good-sized room, which was lighted by a lamp, and
looked like a guard or orderly room. There was no furniture in it but
a table and two chairs. From here the French soldiers were marched
off immediately to their quarters, while Bob, after a moment's delay
while the sergeant went out and evidently consulted some one, was once
more led outdoors and along the barrack front to another angle of the
building. The room to which the sergeant now admitted him was small
and bare, so far as Bob could see in the darkness. It was also very
cold, and the wind whistled against the pane of the one window in the
opposite wall. At the right was a mud and brick chimney, as he saw by
the light of a lamp which a soldier now brought in and stood upon a
rough little table near the center of the room. There was a cot bed,
too, he discovered, with a gray blanket thrown over it, and by the
table a three-legged stool. The soldier threw down an armful of wood
he carried and began building a small fire, to Bob's enormous relief.
The sergeant had already gone out, closing the door after him. He
evidently felt no further responsibility, now that his prisoner's safe
arrival was assured, as Bob could well understand, recalling the number
of armed and watchful sentries he had passed in the outskirts of the
prison camp.
He sat down on the stool and watched the soldier dully, as he laid
the sticks, blew the flame into life with puffs of breath that turned
to vapor in the chilly air, and finally rose from the earthen floor,
leaving the other sticks beside the hearth. He put a swift question to
Bob, glancing doubtfully toward the fire. Bob had not the least idea
what he said, but he nodded and the man went out, locking the door with
a brisk rattle of keys.
Bob went to the fire and crouched in front of it, warming his cold
hands. Then with a sudden thought he rose and pulled the cot over
in front of the hearth. The two gray blankets looked flimsy enough
and were the only bedding above the canvas strips that made the
mattress. Taking stock of his fuel he carefully banked up the burning
sticks, adding one more to the fire. Then, after a look at the little
nailed-down window, whose chinks, he decided, with the gusty draft down
the chimney would give him air enough to breathe, he put out the lamp,
pulled off his boots, and lay down on his cot before the meagre fire.
For a second he watched the flame before his eyes closed. He had
thought so much in the last twenty-four hours, in every mood from
revery to ungovernable despair, that it seemed to him he would go crazy
if his mind worked any longer. With a desperate desire for rest in all
his aching and weary limbs, he cast his cares on Heaven, and wrapping
the thin blankets closely about him quickly fell asleep.
When he awoke it was daylight, and outside and around him sounded heavy
footsteps and now and then voices shouting orders. Bob sat up, feeling
wonderfully refreshed by his sleep, though his mind was clear enough
about the happenings of the night before and he frowned, weighed down
with a black depression. His fire was almost out and the room was
freezing. He got up and rekindled the blaze with what was left of the
wood, then walked around the little room trying to warm himself. By
his wrist-watch it was a quarter to seven, and the sun had not yet
risen. Through the window he could see only wire netting with a pacing
sentry behind it, and beyond that a field and a piece of woodland. He
had not the remotest idea what part of Germany he was in. The north, he
imagined by the increased cold, but he was not familiar enough with the
climate to make a good guess.
He felt ravenously hungry, and as he walked aimlessly about the little
space he tried to guess by the sounds what was happening around him,
and what chance he had of getting some sort of breakfast before long.
The chimney side of the room, to judge by the noise beyond it, adjoined
a guard room or some occupied part of the barracks, but from the left
side came no sounds except an occasional light footstep, and once the
rasping of a chair or table over the clay floor. Bob wondered who his
quiet neighbors were on this side, his thoughts going also to the
wounded men among his late companions, and hoping that his bungling
work had been supplemented before this by proper dressings.
Presently he heard steps outside on the gravel and in a moment his
door was unlocked and opened. A German sergeant, with a red face and
bristling eyebrows, came in with a slight bow, which Bob silently
returned. He had been recalling as many German words as he could, in
the last half hour, seeing how much he would need them, and now he
addressed the sergeant with a kind of doubtful determination:
"I want food, please, and a fire."
The grammar and accent were remarkable, he knew, but he thought the
words made sense. The sergeant looked keenly at him, seeming to
understand, for he glanced at the hearth, then back at Bob, drew his
lips close together, nodded and went out.
He left the door unlocked, so Bob opened it and looked out, for the sun
had risen and he thought the cold outer air would be pleasanter than
the chilly dampness of his prison. The sentry beyond the wire netting
looked sharply at him, but continued his walk. On the other side of
the wire fence was a square yard, on which opened another low wooden
building, with smoke rising from its chimney. Bob guessed this to be
the kitchen, for now he heard the tramp of many feet on his left, and
along the inclosed lane in the netting came a long line of prisoners,
carrying tin cups and basins, and marching toward the open space.
Some of them were talking in a tongue that was absolutely strange to
him. They grew silent as they neared the sentries and then Bob saw by
the blouses of their worn and faded uniforms that they were Russians.
They must number five hundred, he thought, and they were followed by
perhaps two hundred French infantrymen, many with bandaged arms or
hands, and some walking with difficulty, by the aid of a cane or a
comrade's supporting shoulder.
At about the time the first of them reached the other building, a
soldier neared Bob's door carrying a pail in one hand and a smoking
dish in the other. Bob's mouth watered at sight of it, and he quickly
made way for the man, who deposited the basin of what appeared to be
coffee on the table, the pail of water on the floor, and drew from
under his arm a brown loaf of bread, which he put down beside the
coffee.
"_Zwei tage_," he remarked, pointing to it with a serious air.
_Zwei_ Bob knew, but two what? He could not think what _tage_ was. He
remembered the fire though, and said hastily to the soldier, who had
already turned to go, "More wood."
The man looked uncertain, bowed, and went out. Bob sat down to his
breakfast, drinking the odd-tasting substitute for coffee without
criticism. It was at least hot and comforting, and a big piece wrenched
from one end of the loaf made him feel another man. Suddenly, the
meaning of _tage_ came to him. Of course--days--"two days." That was
what the soldier had said. He had pointed to the bread, which was
evidently supposed to last for that length of time. The thought was
not very cheering unless the rest of his diet was forthcoming. He had
observed a very marked difference in his treatment as an officer from
that accorded to the enlisted men who were prisoners. This distinction,
Bob surmised, was made more for the benefit of the German soldiery,
whose respect for an officer must be maintained at any cost, than for a
more generous reason. But he was evidently to be treated with outward
marks of civility, though his comforts, he foresaw, would be scarce
enough, unless he could open communication with some outside means of
supply.
He could easily have eaten half the loaf of bread then and there, but
the soldier's words had made an impression, and he got up without
taking another bite. His door was still unlocked and he stood on the
threshold, trying to get some warmth from the rays of the sun, for
his fire had not been replenished. The wire fence, fully ten feet
high and barbed at the top, ran along the front of the barrack at a
distance of about a dozen steps from it, the only break being the
wire lane extending to the open yard in the center. Down this lane a
sentry walked, commanding a fine view of both sides of the yard. A
short distance to the left another sentry's beat began, in front of the
adjoining barrack.
At about a hundred feet to the right and left of Bob's door the wire
curved suddenly in to the barrack wall, leaving only that length for
a walk, and enclosing about five doors, so far as he could see down
the line. One of these doors opened into the room next his, where he
had heard the subdued sounds of the early morning, and as he stood
there shivering, fastening his coat before trying a walk up the little
inclosure in the biting wind, he became aware that his neighbor was
also standing on his own threshold.
The French soldiers were just returning from across the yard with their
ration, hurrying back to shelter with the steaming bowls, and Bob could
see that the man was watching them, absorbed and motionless. Before he
caught more than a glimpse of the tall figure he had gone back into his
room. Bob returned likewise for his helmet, thinking unpleasant things
of the soldier who was leaving him to freeze for want of a little wood,
when a footstep caused him to turn expectantly. Instead of the stolid
German orderly, he saw an erect, distinguished looking man in the faded
blue uniform of a French infantry Captain. He stood just outside the
door, and as Bob turned he bowed and extended his hand, a bright smile
lighting up his pale, thin face.
"I am your neighbor, Monsieur the Lieutenant," he said, in correct if
rather painstaking English.
Bob stepped out and shook his hand warmly. How eagerly he welcomed the
company of this unfortunate Frenchman was told by his face and the grip
of his fingers before he said, "I'm very glad to see you. Can't you
come in?"
The Frenchman's eyes looked pleased at the warmth of his welcome by the
American, whose frank young face he was scanning with both liking and
pity, but he cast a look at the sentry before he answered, "I think he
will not object. We can at least wait until he does."
They entered Bob's room, where Bob drew forward the stool, reserving
for himself the low table, which was solidly built of timber.
"I am Philippe Bertrand, Captain of French infantry," said his guest,
seating himself and removing his cap from his black hair as he spoke.
"May I ask your name and where you were taken?"
Bob willingly responded to the friendly inquiry, and for every word he
spoke he had an interested listener. He told the Frenchman where he
came from and the length of his service, finally asking, "Can you give
me any idea of where we are, Captain?"
Bertrand pronounced a German name which meant nothing to Bob. The added
information that the place was situated in Prussia made things a little
clearer.
"How long have you been here, Captain?" he asked with an inward shudder.
"Six months," replied Bertrand, a shadow coming over his thin face.
"Before that I was fighting since 1914 near the northern end of the
British line in Flanders. That is how I learned English."
"But are you the only officer imprisoned here?" asked Bob. "There seem
to be a great number of other prisoners."
"There are no other French or British officers here now. They have been
transferred elsewhere. There were Russian officers next to me until
last week, but they have been taken away. There was some rumor of an
armistice signed between Russia and our enemies." He frowned, looking
anxiously at Bob. "You have heard nothing of it?"
Bob had heard little of an actual armistice signed, but he told all
he knew of the troubled state of things in Russia. Then, in answer to
Bertrand's eager questions, he told all the war news that the last six
months could recall to his mind, ending by an account of America's
great preparations, the story of his own service overseas and his
capture inside the German lines.
Bertrand listened with rapt attention, for little news had filtered
into the prison, and that little cut to a German pattern. At some of
Bob's words he looked sadly downcast, but at everything relating to
the preparations of America for the combat, he brightened perceptibly.
At last he rose and again held out his hand.
"Our doors will be locked in a moment," he explained for his sudden
departure. "This is the hour of exercise, though lately I cannot much
avail myself of it."
"You mean we may walk in that little space in front at this time?"
inquired Bob, disgustedly. "Won't they let us go anywhere else?"
"Sometimes they will. I myself am not sure, so you must ask," the
Frenchman responded. "I am no longer able to walk far, and the little
promenade before my door does well enough."
"You mean you are ill?" asked Bob, looking with sinking heart at the
pale face of his companion.
"I have a sort of fever, I think. It comes and goes, but it is rather
irksome. Thank you very kindly for your talk. It has given me food for
new thoughts."
Bob held him back a second. "When may I see you again, Captain? I have
such a lot to ask you about. You don't know how much it means having
you here beside me."
"This evening, perhaps," was the rather doubtful answer. "My guard
sometimes leaves the door unlocked at supper-time since I am alone
here. It is to save himself trouble, I think. It was he who told me of
the arrival of an American officer."
He bowed again, as he turned to go, with a bright smile that showed two
rows of white, even teeth, and when his eyes lighted up Bob realized
that he was a young man, in spite of the sobering effects of fever and
privation.
The guard reappeared with a belated armful of wood, as Bob reëntered
his room after his new friend's departure. He carried his keys, too,
with which, after building up the cold hearth, he prepared to lock the
door, but was prevented by a shout from the nearest sentry. Some one
was crossing the yard preceded by a sergeant at rigid attention. The
guard quickly opened the door again, flattening himself against it as
he hastily announced to Bob, "The Herr Major!"