“Ja,” I agreed, “but the offensive?” for the papers were still gloating over the March success.
“The offensive?” he went on, “Ach, the offensive is doing splendidly! They’ve captured fifty thousand prisoners! They’re going immer fester d’rauf!” and he beat himself on the chest in illustration. “Ach, Lieber, it’ll soon be over now!”
“I thought you’d captured one hundred and twenty thousand prisoners,” I protested, puzzled.
“Ach,” exclaimed the guard, “This isn’t us, it’s the French!”
We had three hours to wait for our train, so he took me for a stroll around Gadebusch. We visited two ladies who had sons in English and French imprisonment. Both of them talked kindly to me and said that their sons wrote pleasing accounts of their treatment at the hands of the enemy. Later he took me to see another English prisoner in a private home. It was a joy to meet him and speak the language again, exchanging the stories of our varied adventures. He was “all right” there, enjoying the privileges of a favored slave in the home, valued by his master and loved by the children, for whom his broken German was a source of never-ending amusement.
“Well, what are you going to do with him?” asked his master jocularly of my guard.
“Don’t you want another Engländer, Annie?” he asked, turning to the oldest girl.
“Ja, Ja!” shouted both the children at once.
Finding me agreeable, the old man and the guard immediately framed a letter to the Komandatur asking for my return to Gadebusch, when my punishment was over.
We took a third class passage back to the camp at Parchim. It was one of those long carriages with seats along the sides like a tram. A large crowd boarded the train at Gadebusch, but we got in among the first and managed to get seats. When the guard announced my nationality, I promptly became the cynosure of neighboring eyes and the object of innumerable questions, which he obligingly answered.