Then the door opens and my comrade announces in a tone that implies
something unusual: "A Belgian in a German uniform." I look at the man
in astonishment. Why is he allowed to run around without any guard in
particular? The expression of his face is rather stupid. He sits down
near the stove and crosses his legs comfortably. I ask him how he got
the uniform. He answers in Flemish. Before an explanation is possible
the hospital corps men bring in six or seven Englishmen on stretchers.
Now quick work is necessary. Mattresses must be spread out on the
floor and the people changed from bed to bed. The room is filled with
inquisitive hospital corps men and soldiers. I shove them all out. When
the door is finally closed again I count my prisoners and find the
Belgian is missing. I rush outside to look around the station platform.
There stands my Belgian on the doorstep. I seize his arm in an almost
friendly manner and invite him to come inside again. At last he tells
me how he got the uniform. He insists he got it in the hospital in the
place of his own tattered one. I shake my head increduously, but the
chaffeur who brought the prisoner hurries up and verifies the story.
Now the station commandant comes along and is also of the opinion that
the prisoner must get some other kind of clothing. "But," he orders,
"first ask the staff doctor if his uniform can be taken off without any
danger to his wounds." I don't have to do this, because the wound is on
his upper thigh. I hunt up an unclaimed English cloak and, with visible
relief, the Belgian warrior crawls out of the German lion's skin.