[CHAPTER XII]
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: