"COME IN, COMRADE!"
Bob had not seen any commissioned German officers since his arrival at
the prison camp, but this one he guessed to be the Commandant, by the
dignified importance of his gait, and the effect he produced upon the
guard and sentry. The officer approached Bob's doorway with deliberate
step and clanking sword, looking keenly along the barrack front as
though for anything needing his attention. He was a short, stocky,
middle-aged man, with flaxen hair and a fair skin, his chin slightly
raised as he shifted his bright, intelligent glance from one point to
another. When he reached Bob's door and caught sight of the prisoner,
he gave him a long look, then a quick nod by way of salutation. Bob
returned the nod, standing silently by his table when the officer
entered, followed by the sergeant with much clatter of boots. As Bob
saw his face plainly he found little in it to like. The prim, set lips
and cold, light-gray eyes told of a rigid and ungenerous nature; of the
sort of man who prefers rules to justice. Bob had no time to make any
more reflections before the major seated himself on the stool brought
quickly forward by the sergeant, and, fixing his eyes on the prisoner,
began a long question in rapid German, accompanied by waves of the hand
to emphasize his words.
Bob silently shook his head and said in English, as soon as there was a
pause in the flow of words, "I cannot speak German, Herr Major."
The great man frowned angrily, his face growing red with the quick
temper that is aroused by trifles and as easily calmed. He stared at
Bob for a moment, as though trying to discover whether or not he was
speaking the truth, then evidently deciding that he was, he puckered
his brows and began irritably in English.
"To me at once your name, your rank, your corps and their position
tell. And the event of how you at our hands were taken." He stopped
rather suddenly, his labored English apparently failing him.
Bob began promptly, and repeated what he had already told the
officers at Petit-Bois. He had managed to satisfy them without giving
any definite information, and he had little trouble now in being
sufficiently vague to make his answers valueless, for his questioner
did not know enough of the American positions to contradict him.
The inquiry was ended sooner than it might have been by the evident
unwillingness felt by the German to struggle on in English. Bob
suspected that half his rapid answers had not been understood.
When a pause finally ensued he took the questioning boldly into his own
hands and said:
"Herr Major, as a prisoner of war, I should like to make a request."
"What is it?" snapped the officer in German, roused from his thoughts
and staring with an irritable unfriendliness at the American prisoner.
"I should like more room for exercise, and sufficient food and fire."
Bob thought he might as well speak his mind at once. He did not see
what harm could come of his demands, which were quite within his
rights, even if they should be unheeded.
The major seemed little impressed by them. He got up, nodding shortly
in acknowledgment, but the only reply he vouchsafed was the inquiry, in
English, "You some money perhaps have?"
Bob was surprised but he answered truthfully, "Yes, a little."
"A canteen there is." The major jerked his head in the direction of the
kitchen building. "There you more food can sometimes buy. We cannot
feed our prisoners as you live in America!" This was said with a flash
of spiteful fury not lost upon Bob, who saw in that moment how little,
beyond the most grudging sustenance, he or his countrymen could expect
at German hands.
The major went out without any further words, accompanied by a shout
from the sergeant to the sentries to present arms, and a great display
of military stiffness on the part of Bob's guard, who seemed to be
lingering about the premises for the privilege of saluting a second
time. Bob drew a sigh of relief when the major's sword had clanked
itself out of ear-shot along the barracks, devoutly hoping he would
not make long visits in the quarters of the humbler prisoners. He felt
sure they would agree with him that the less seen of the Herr Major the
better.
He dropped down on the stool, now restored to his own use, and sat
wondering drearily how on earth he could pass the time in any degree of
cheerfulness. He regretted now not having gone outdoors while he had
the chance, and decided that he must adopt indoor exercises at once if
his health was not to suffer from the unnatural confinement. Getting
up an appetite, though, was certainly a thing to be avoided. Bob's
thoughts of the future were dim and purposeless, and he did his best
just now to keep them so. He greatly hoped he would not realize the
depth of his misfortune, and that the half incredulous state of mind
that made him live on from moment to moment, as though his imprisonment
were something strange and passing, might last a little longer. One ray
of comfort he had, and he clung to it when despair seemed very near
him. Solitude was the thing he most dreaded, and Captain Bertrand's
friendly presence had been like a ray of light out of utter darkness.
Bob had always had an affectionate family or cheerful friends around
him. He did not know how to live alone and could hardly have risen
above the utter depression of it. In thinking of the young Frenchman's
brave calmness he found more courage to face things than he had thought
he possessed.
The guard had locked his door, and Bob particularly wanted to find out
about the canteen the hospitable Commandant had spoken of. He took out
his money from the inside pocket lining of his blouse where it was
hidden, and counted it carefully. He had just forty francs. The ten he
had given to the old peasant would have been welcome now, but he did
not regret them.
As the morning wore on, and the door remained locked, Bob's active
body demanded movement of some kind. He tried a balancing performance
with the stool, vaulted over the low table, went through the manual
of arms without a gun, and had a fencing bout with an imaginary sword
and opponent. Then, his invention failing him, he dropped down on
his stool again and resumed his principal occupation of the past two
days--wondering. He wondered what time dinner was, and if it would be
more substantial than breakfast. Anyway he had the promise of food at
the canteen to look forward to. He wondered if writing materials could
be bought there, too, and, if so, whether a letter from here would ever
reach the outside world through the Commandant's hands. He remembered
that he had not asked Bertrand in what part of Prussia they were.
The name of some near-by city might be more familiar to him than the
town outside the camp. He could not understand why Bertrand had been
kept there when the other officers were transferred, but he was very
thankful for his own sake that it had been so.
After a long while the door was unlocked, to the accompanying sounds
of the prisoners forming in ranks outside the barrack, and his guard
appeared with the same steaming basin that had held the acorn coffee
at breakfast. As he put it down on the table and turned to leave, Bob
plunged into German. "I go," he began, pointing emphatically across the
yard, the word canteen not being at his command, "get bread."
The soldier looked puzzled, curious, and finally a light broke over his
heavy countenance. He nodded and went out, saying something in reply
which Bob did not understand, but in which the word "sergeant" occurred.
Becoming resigned by now to patient waiting, Bob sat down to find what
he had for dinner. So far as he could make out with the help of the
metal spoon, the bowl held a kind of cabbage soup, with a few shreds
of vegetables lurking near the bottom. It did not look inviting, but
he was much too hungry to be critical, and he emptied the bowl in five
minutes, finding the soup not bad, with another chunk of black bread
to accompany it. The chief trouble was there was not enough of it.
He could have eaten a whole dinner afterward without any trouble. At
thought of the people at home who would so gladly send him money and
supplies if only they could reach him, he resolved to try hard to get
them some news of his whereabouts.
Soon after he finished eating, the sergeant with the bristling eyebrows
appeared, announcing that he had come to conduct the lieutenant to the
canteen.
Bob got up with alacrity, put on his helmet and heavy coat, and
followed his guide out into the cold air, along the wire lane past the
watchful sentry, who turned and followed in their wake. Bob was mildly
amused at the idea of his attempting to escape. He had about as much
chance as if he were a wild animal in an iron cage, and would have
received just as cordial a welcome throughout Prussia. Whichever way
he turned his eyes met lines of high wire fencing, or the glistening
bayonets of the sentries patrolling the camp in every direction.
The canteen was no more than a room just off the kitchen, fitted with
shelves stocked with goods. A corporal in charge was seated behind a
table. He rose at sight of a customer and made the usual slight bow,
after a glance at Bob's shoulder-straps. Bob saw but a scant display
of eatables on the shelves, but after a careful inspection he selected
two cans of herring, a small loaf of black bread to supplement his two
days' ration, and a jar of strange looking yellow marmalade. For these
luxuries he paid three francs and felt that his captors had got the
best of it.
The bargain concluded, the sergeant led him promptly back across the
yard, where several hundred prisoners had gathered, carrying picks
and shovels, and evidently starting out for an afternoon's work. Bob
almost wished he might join them as he looked keenly around, trying
to see if the companions of his journey from Petit-Bois were there.
Two big Russians, looking about them with mild, patient eyes as they
leaned upon their tools, stood close by the wire netting, and, as Bob
passed by, a Frenchman pushed his head in between their shoulders with
a friendly smile in his direction and a nod of recognition. Bob longed
to stop and ask him how the wounded men were faring, and what sort
of treatment they were receiving, but the inexorable sentry dogged
his steps, and a nod and smile in return was all the communication
possible.
There were no writing materials on sale at the canteen, so Bob demanded
some of the sergeant. In answer he merely promised to obtain them from
the Commandant, and Bob foresaw another delay.
After this short diversion he paced his floor restlessly until dark,
which brought with it the guard, carrying another bowl of coffee, and
a welcome armful of wood. The soldier lighted the lamp and went out,
leaving the door open. In a second Bob swallowed the decoction in the
bowl, hurriedly made his way out and approached his neighbor's door. It
was closed, but yielded to his touch, and saying softly, "May I come
in, Captain?" he put his head through the crack.
The room was dimly lighted and looked much the same as Bob's own. The
cot was pulled like his before the feeble fire, and on it lay the
French officer, who raised his head at sight of Bob to say warmly,
though with little strength in his voice, "Come in, comrade!"
Bob closed the door behind him, overcome with pity and a dreadful
feeling of helplessness at sight of Bertrand's long, thin figure
shivering beneath the flimsy blankets. "You are ill, Captain? What can
I do?" he stammered.
Then, realizing that Bertrand was in the clutches of a chill, and in
no state to answer questions, he steadied his nerves and took things
into his own hands with energy.
"You've eaten nothing," he said, looking at the bowl of coffee which
the guard had placed on the stool beside the cot. "This is hot, at
least." He broke a few crumbs of bread from the loaf on the stool into
the steaming bowl and, raising Bertrand's shivering shoulders, put a
spoonful to his lips. "Take it anyway, it will warm you," he urged,
finally persuading the sick man to swallow a few spoonfuls, after which
he tucked the blankets about him and built up the flickering fire.
"Wait a minute," he said presently, rising and darting to the door
again. In a moment he was back, bringing one of his own blankets, which
he wrapped around Bertrand's shaking body with anxious thoroughness.
"Your blanket?" faltered Bertrand, as his fit of shivering slowly
lessened. "You must not give me that! This will pass in a few moments.
It always comes before the fever."
"I have enough," said Bob, raising a spoonful of coffee again to
Bertrand's lips. "Drink all this now, can't you? I've heated it at the
fire, and it will help keep you warm. I am going to find a doctor for
you, if it's humanly possible."
"He comes now and then," said Bertrand, raising himself to drink
the hot liquid obediently, though his breath came quick and hard as he
spoke. "It was he who would not have me moved the day the other French
officers were transferred. You had better go now, comrade. The guard
will not leave the door unlocked again if the sergeant discovers it."
Bob nodded, looking with anxious eyes at Bertrand's face, now losing
its pallor for a flush, as no longer trembling, he lay wearily
motionless. Bob renewed the fire again as well as he could, and
readjusted the blankets, took an unwilling leave, only consoled at
seeing that the chill had passed and that Bertrand seemed inclined to
sleep.
At his own door he encountered the guard who, by the light of the
lantern he held, looked sullenly at his enterprising American prisoner
and rattled the keys suggestively. Bob gave him no time to voice his
displeasure, but on entering the room said in such German as he could
muster:
"Where is the doctor? When can he come here?"
The soldier looked dubious, and muttered that he did not know.
Bob's anger was swiftly rising at this brutal neglect of poor Bertrand.
He turned savagely on the guard. "Go and find out!" he shouted, in
execrable German, but in a voice that roused the echo of obedience to
authority in the soldier's dull mind. He went out more quickly than
Bob had ever seen him move before. In a moment he was back again,
and the sergeant with him. Bob repeated his demand, but got no more
satisfaction than the assurance that, "The Herr Doctor will certainly
be here to-morrow."
"If he isn't, you will take me to the Commandant," he declared in a
burst of righteous indignation. "And now," he added, a cold blast from
the door reminding him of his own need, "I want another blanket. I gave
one of mine to Captain Bertrand."
Not all of this speech was comprehensible to the sergeant, for Bob's
German was very strange indeed, and all the words he did not know were
supplemented by French or English terms. But the blanket request he
did understand and seemed highly doubtful about being able to grant.
"I will try, Herr Lieutenant," was the most he would say, and a moment
later Bob was left alone.
He went to bed in his overcoat, wrapped in his single blanket, for he
had no hope of receiving a second one that night. The little fire that
blew hither and thither, in the wind that rushed down the chimney,
could not keep him from shivering, but after a while he went to sleep.
When morning dawned Bob got up to the sound of hundreds of clattering
boots, and throwing off his overcoat, went through some brisk exercises
for half an hour until his chilled blood ran warm again. While he did
it he came to a resolution in behalf of the unfortunate Frenchman lying
sick and solitary next door, and although he had little hope of gaining
any favors from the Commandant or his subordinates, he resolved to make
the effort. Defiance was his only weapon, a poor enough one since he
was helpless in his captors' hands, but it had already achieved more
with his guard than had politeness. Anyway, he felt that his angry
feelings must find expression somehow.
He struggled to make the fire burn until the soldier entered with his
coffee. No more bread was yet forthcoming, though thanks to his visit
to the canteen, Bob still had a little. He turned to the guard, getting
up from his seat on the cot before the fire. "Where is my blanket?" he
demanded.
The man muttered something about the matter having been referred to the
Commandant.
"Rats!" ejaculated Bob, thrusting his hands deep in his trousers
pockets and staring disgustedly at the guard's heavy red face.
The soldier's little blue eyes lighted up with a vague alarm. He
evidently felt the American to be an unknown quantity, of whom anything
might be expected. Bob had already noticed furtive glances cast at
him, as though sudden violence on his part was not unlikely. He felt
decidedly like realizing the guard's suspicions now.
"Go get the sergeant," he said at last, speaking more calmly.
When the man had gone Bob took the opportunity to visit Bertrand, whom
he found asleep with his untasted breakfast beside him, the blankets
tossed about his cot bearing witness to a troubled night. Bob touched
his hand and felt it hot and dry. He went softly out and found the
sergeant awaiting him.
"Where is the doctor?" was Bob's first inquiry.
"He will come," the sergeant assured him, with such certainty that Bob
felt there was some reason to believe him.
He pointed across to the canteen, saying firmly, "I will buy a blanket
now."
No objection was raised to this, and he decided that it was probably
just what was expected of him. At the canteen he found a small stock of
thin, gray blankets, one of which he bought, reluctantly paying for it
twelve francs out of his remaining thirty-seven. He bought, also, for
seven more francs, a cotton shirt, a razor, and another loaf of bread.
As they recrossed the yard twenty minutes later, through the midst
of a crowd of Russians, Bob saw an officer coming out of Bertrand's
room. He quickened his steps on the sergeant's informing him that
this was the Herr Doctor who had come as promised. Bob met him in the
narrow space before the barrack and spoke eagerly, after a quick bow of
salutation, which the other gravely returned.
"Captain Bertrand--do you think he is any better?"
The military doctor surrendered the leather case he carried to an
orderly who followed him and looked attentively at Bob, seeming more
struck by his atrocious German than by what he had said. He was a
gray-haired, shrewd-looking man, with a quiet, self-contained manner.
In a moment he said in English:
"I can speak English a little. What would you say?"
Bob answered, with great relief at the loosening of his tongue, "I wish
to ask you about Captain Bertrand. He seems very ill. Is there nothing
that can be done for him? He has no care at all--I don't understand
it." Bob's indignation got a little the better of him. His face flushed
and his voice hardened.
The doctor nodded. "He should be transferred to a hospital. But with
present difficulties it may two or three weeks take."
"Well, have you left him anything? Any quinine? I could give it to him
in whatever doses you prescribe."
The doctor glanced keenly at the eager young American. His face seemed
to say that Bob spoke without knowing all the facts. "I have left a
little--yes," he assented. "Enough is not to be had."
Bob struggled with his feelings, uncertain whether the doctor's
calmness was callous indifference or if he were simply doing his best
with inadequate supplies and help. He thought he detected a little
regret and human interest in his voice, in speaking of Bertrand's sad
case, but the German was not disposed to be communicative. He seemed
ready to move away now, but Bob took a sudden resolution.
"At least, doctor, you can obtain permission for me to sleep in Captain
Bertrand's room and look after him until the fever goes. It is cruel to
leave him alone with no help or companionship. Let me take care of him
until you can arrange for his transfer."
The doctor thought silently for a moment. "I can see no objection to
that," he said at last. "I will do it, if possible it is."
He nodded in a not unfriendly way, and walked quickly off, leaving
Bob saying to himself in doubtful irritation, "Will you really do it,
or just say you will do it, like the others?" He had somewhat more
confidence in this man than in the other Germans about him, for he felt
that a doctor's fellow-feeling extends with his profession beyond the
borders of his own country, though he judged only by the French and
British and American doctors he had seen among the enemy's wounded.
When he reached the door of his room the sergeant was standing by
his table, and at sight of him Bob's spirits gave a sudden bound. On
the table were laid some sheets of paper, envelopes, half a dozen
post-cards, a few stamps and a pencil. The sergeant took note of the
amount on his fingers and after a hasty calculation said, "Two francs,
Herr Lieutenant."
Bob produced them, desperately eager for the chance to write, however
hopeless such an attempt might be. But first he took advantage of the
remaining free moments to visit Bertrand's room. The Frenchman was
sitting on his cot, looking spent and weary, but at sight of Bob he
smiled and held out his hand.
"My friend, you must take back your blanket," he said earnestly, as Bob
approached the cot and sat down beside him. "I did not think last night
when you so generously left it."
Bob reassured him on that score, and hastily told of his interview
with the doctor, and of the hope he felt of being allowed to sleep
in Bertrand's room. This seemed to afford the sick man great comfort.
He silently shook Bob's hand with a grateful look that told more than
words of the lonely misery he had suffered. His fever had gone down,
though his thin face was still flushed and his eyes over-bright. Bob
heated over the fire the coffee left from breakfast and made him drink
it, though he could not be persuaded to eat the hard bread. Bob's own
stores of herring and pumpkin-seed marmalade were alike useless. He
resolved to ransack the canteen again for something palatable, for
Bertrand was rapidly losing strength on his meagre diet.
Bob did not dare lead him to count on having his company at night until
permission was assured. But he felt, when he left him, that even the
hope had brought a little cheerfulness into the unfortunate officer's
long day, which he must pass lying spent with fever in his lonely
prison. Bob wanted to ask him if his letters had been answered, and
what chance there was of receiving news from home or of sending it
there, but he was afraid of awakening unhappy thoughts, and decided to
postpone his questions until Bertrand's fever should have entirely gone.
He sat down at his own table, after the doors were locked again,
and slowly took up the indelible pencil lying on the paper before
him, with a sad look coming over his face. Longings for home and
freedom wrenched his heart now as he thought of what to write, and the
hopelessness of trying to say anything, since all must pass under the
eyes of the Commandant, made him lay down his pencil almost in despair.
But to assure his family that he was alive and well was his greatest
wish, and he felt a reasonable hope of having this much sent on.
At last he chose the post-cards, and writing the brief news that he
was well, a prisoner in Germany, and sent his love to all at home, he
addressed three of them to his mother, his father and to Lucy, hoping
that one of the three might find its way in time to Governor's Island.
Considering the difficult and roundabout means of transportation,
coupled with little willingness on the part of his captors to fulfil
the prisoners' wishes, he saw, as he thought it over again, that the
chances were slim.
As he wrote Lucy's name her face came before him, as she had looked
when he said good-bye to her three months before. Her eyes were bright
with tears, but she was bravely smiling, and he could hear her voice
again, gay and cheerful, but with a world of tender affection behind it
as she said, "We'll never stop thinking of you!"
He knew she never had, and the constant thoughts of those who waited
for him were the source of more courage than they knew, now that Bob
in his loneliness had such need of courage. But he felt, just then, he
would give anything on earth for the sight of one familiar face among
the strangers about him, of whom only Bertrand and the French soldier
prisoner had given him the grateful tribute of a friendly glance. Few
wishes were granted in that prison camp, but at this time of strange
happenings Bob's wish was nearer fulfilment than he dreamed.
Dinner was no more substantial than yesterday's, but Bob helped it out
with a pickled herring. While he was eating it without enthusiasm,
a vision of Karl's cream-puffs, as they had so often come, at Bob's
special request, puffy, round and inviting, to the Gordons' table, made
him smile with a touch of irony. It would be hard work persuading Karl
to make him any now, supposing the two met again.
In the afternoon, the sergeant brought him the welcome news that he
would be permitted to sleep in Bertrand's room. Eager to make sure of
the privilege, Bob asked to have his cot moved immediately, and two
soldiers carried it into the next room at the sergeant's orders. Bob
stood in his doorway while this was going on, looking curiously at a
little group of what he guessed, from the numerous guards about them,
to be newly-arrived prisoners, though they were too far off to be
distinguished. He asked his guard who they were, without expecting a
satisfactory answer, for the soldier was always non-committal, whether
from natural sullenness or in obedience to orders, Bob could not
decide. But this time his eyes brightened at the question, and after
glancing down toward the further barracks which the men had entered, he
gave Bob a queer look and said, "American prisoners."
"What!" Bob's self-control was gone for a moment. He stared at the man
in blank amazement.
The guard nodded, adding with a kind of triumph in his voice, "Eleven
were brought in this morning."
That was the extent of his information, but Bob pondered it most of the
night, while he kept alive the fire and tended his feverish companion,
whose greatest comfort it seemed was to know Bob's friendly presence
close at hand.
In the morning he went out the moment the door was unlocked, leaving
his wretched coffee untasted. A light snow had fallen during the night,
and the air was cold and sparkling, with the sun just risen. This was
the hour when all the prisoners crossed the yard for breakfast. He
searched hundreds of faces, French and Russian, before at last a little
knot of downcast United States infantrymen came by, soup basins in
hand. Some of them were wounded. Bob's heart beat hard and his eyes
filled with hot tears of sympathy and comradeship. He could hardly see
their faces, but all at once a hand was thrust through the wire netting
beside him, and a voice trembling with excitement cried, "Bob Gordon!"
Bob stared through the netting with misty, unbelieving eyes.
"Lieutenant, I meant to say," stammered Sergeant Cameron, as Bob, too
overcome at the sight of him to answer, clasped his outstretched hand.
"We won, though," the sergeant said in his ear, in the instant before
his hand was withdrawn to resume the march across the yard, and those
words echoed in Bob's ears above the noisy orders of the German guards
ordering on the men, who, one and all, had paused to watch the meeting
between the two Americans with friendly, understanding eyes.
The prisoners were from his father's regiment. This was the thought
uppermost in Bob's mind. But they had won the fight!