Captain Lucy and Lieutenant Bob

by Aline Havard

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.