“What makes you men fight?” she asked slowly, gazing out of the window. “Isn’t it horrible!”
“Ja,” I agreed, “Horrible beyond all words.”
“He might be killed! How cruel the Engländer must be to kill such boys as Karl. Don’t you think it is cruel—cruel—cruel?”
“War is cruel,” I conceded. It was useless to start an argument. “But he’s been through three years of it all right, so why are you worrying now? Besides, the war is bound to end soon,” I added hopefully.
“Why didn’t you go and let him stay with me?” she demanded, clutching at a childish idea. “You always say that you would rather be back there fighting than here. What horrible mistakes the lieber Gott makes! Why don’t you go and fight in his stead and send him back to me?”
“I should hardly care to fight in his stead, Fraulein,” I said. I could not give her any comfort so I arose and went out, leaving her staring blankly out of the window.
She took me somewhat into her confidence after that, and often read me letters from Karl. The first letter found him at a reinforcement camp near Bruges.
“Pray God he stops there,” she said.
But he didn’t; for the end of March found him writing letters like this: “We have crossed the Marne! Peace and victory are in sight. We go forward with God!”
“Isn’t it noble!” Miga said.