There was a good deal of comment among the prisoners concerning the quality of food served to them and other conveniences—or inconveniences—with which they were provided. The general opinion among them was that the enemy was approaching dangerously near the limit of their resources, which might mean an ending of the war in the not far distant future. Indeed, Phil was sure that he could detect signs of spitefulness in the manner and actions of both commissioned officers and non-coms toward the prisoners, and he was equally certain that the reason for this spitefulness was an undisguisable consciousness of their shortage of resources and equipment.
“This war isn’t going to last very much longer,” Phil remarked to his two friends as he forced down the last spoonful of stew. He was ravenously hungry, having had nothing to eat since early the preceding day, and in spite of the fact that the food served was most unpalatable, he deemed it wise not to waste any of the scanty portion served to him.
“That’s what lots of soldiers are saying principally because of stories of experiences similar to ours that find their way across No Man’s Land,” said Dan. “But there’s one thing that gets me in this connection more than anything else, and that is that the more defeat you cram down these boches’ throats, the more arrogant and overbearing they become. Just look at that human boaconstrictor strutting around as if utterly unconscious of the fact that he ought to be going to sleep.”
“I don’t get you,” said Emmet with an expression of challenging curiosity. “If we were campaigning with the British among the pyramids of Egypt, it might be appropriate for you to talk like a Sphinx.”
“I get him,” announced Phil. “He means that boche officer has such an ungainly girth that he looks like a boa that has swallowed a pig and ought to be taking an after-dinner nap. But I have something to add to Dan’s observation. That fellow is one of the six kaiserites whom I forced to strip to their underclothes and who turned the tables on me and recaptured their pants et cetera, and brought me here as an honored guest.”
“Better keep out of his sight then,” Emmet advised. “If he sets eyes on you, he’s likely not to rest until he gets his revenge. And you know what revenge means in wartime. He’ll probably find some way of blowin’ you to atoms to feed the molecules.”
“You do him too great a chemical honor by presenting the matter in such light,” Phil objected, screwing up one side of his face to indicate his skepticism. “He looks to me like an ordinary butcher, and I don’t think he’d attempt to do anything more than make mincemeat of me.”
“Have it your own way,” Emmet returned with a shrug. “But look out for him at any event. He seems to be recognized as having a good deal of authority around here.”
“He’s only a second lieutenant,” was Phil’s reminder.
“That doesn’t make any difference,” Emmet insisted. “This fellow’s in right with the higher-ups. It may be easier, you know, to use an officer of low rank for all sorts of jobs than one of higher rank. He can work more quietly—won’t attract so much attention sometimes.”