The men at work on the vegetables were listening.
“We are likely, then, to stay here for some time,” said one of them.
“Never mind,” says Bonin; “we are better off than we should be at Augsburg. In the Ingolstadt hospital I had a talk with some of the men from the Lechfeld camp. There, I gathered, the prisoners sleep under canvas, mixed higgledy-piggledy with the wounded who are awaiting removal to hospital. There are no plates. They feed by sections, out of a trough. No meat. Nothing but turnips and red cabbage. Not very pleasant, this starvation camp, during the cold winter rains. They would regard our fortress as the lap of luxury!”
The potatoes have been peeled. Now for the turnips. The soldiers cut slices and chew them raw while they are at work. Poor devils!
The task is done. They sweep up the peelings. How limp are their movements! To think that they are all men between twenty and thirty years of age. The Lenting curé told us in one of his sermons: “You have been welcomed here as friends.” Major von Stengel hit the mark more aptly one Sunday. Apropos of the fact that all through the week, from matins to compline, the religious services had been diligently said, he remarked: “Sie würden lieber etwas mehr Brot haben, als so viele christliche Seelensorge.”[20]
But d’Arnoult has kept his principal item of news for a tit-bit. A man named Schieder, one of the two grocers of Hepperg, house number 31, jealous at finding that his trade rival was exclusively patronized for the clandestine purchases made on our behalf by the soldiers of the guard, has just written a furious letter to Commanding Officer Major Baron von Stengel. His first complaint is that the commandant’s boot-cleaning orderly has insulted his (the commandant’s) wife, “going to the length of making indecent and public observations upon the imperfections of her face and figure—conduct unworthy of the German army and the German name.” The letter proceeds: “Further, it is an open secret that the aforesaid orderly returns daily from the village of Hepperg laden with a huge bundle of rolls, sticks of chocolate, boxes of cigarettes and of cigars, not to mention butter, sausages, smoked ham, and roast goose—conduct even more scandalous, if possible, than the insults offered to your honoured lady, for it transforms into an abode of bliss a national fortress where it is intended that the petulant pride of the French should experience salutary suffering.” The worthy grocer, in order to give vent to his spleen, had pirated all the grandiloquence he could find in the local papers. It was extremely laughable. But d’Arnoult and I saw another side as well as the amusing one. Were we to be cut off from our extra supplies? The commandant had already summoned his Wichser, and after administering a temperate reprimand, had forbidden him to revisit Hepperg. Without losing his head, Georg (we, his patrons, speak of him thus familiarly) pointed out to the Herr Major that it was necessary to go somewhere for his honour’s marketing. “You will go to Kösching!”—“At your orders, Herr Major, but Kösching is an hour’s walk!”—“Very well, you will go to Kösching for three days; Hepperg is out of bounds for three days!”
Le Chasseur concluded by saying: “But after all, I am convinced that the commandant will let the matter drop. This laborious letter reeks too much of the counter. Von Stengel has no fancy to see his gentility contaminated by association with the greasy scales of Schieder the grocer!”
It is already ten o’clock. I shall hardly get any more work done to-day. The “salon” is becoming a forum. My comrades are very good. They say: “I don’t want to bother you. I’ve only just looked in to shake hands.” But they ask for news; they give me their own; they retail the latest canard. There is always a canard in the fort. To-day, for example, the talk in the courtyards is that the Russians have taken Breslau. To pay the Germans out for the famous Paris kaput, those of us who are least able to speak German do not hesitate to greet the gentle Stheer, the assistant quartermaster, with a cheerful “Breslau kaput.” Naturally I protest, for the news is too utterly ridiculous. So here I am sketching a map of the military operations. Dutrex breaks off his reading of Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkmann to quote the latest issues of the Münchener. Durupt mingles his invincible hope with the debate. It is interminable! And my poor studies lie neglected.