Georg did not turn up until this morning. I was working at the “ministerial” table. The eight cauldrons were steaming fiercely. The kitchen was filled with vapour, so that I could hardly see what I was writing. Suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round, to find Brissot, accompanied by Georg. I shook them both by the hand.
“Felduntauglich?” (Ineligible?)
“Nein! Donnerwetter!”
“Georg wants you to do him a service,” said Brissot. “Will you translate for him this letter to the French medical officers?”
I drew a sheet of paper from my haversack. Without studying the contents of the petition as a whole, I translated it phrase by phrase, almost word for word. This is what I wrote:
“Honoured Comrades,—
“In an unexpected manner, has struck the hour which summons me to fight for my king and country. Like all of you, I must do my duty; and, like all of you, it is possible that in a short time I shall find myself in France (sic) as a prisoner of war. If I encounter there men having like sentiments with myself, I shall have no fears for the future. As far as I have been able, I have fulfilled towards you and your comrades the duty of loving one’s neighbour.
“An old proverb says: ‘What you do to me, I will do to you!’ I trust that you also, honoured comrades, will take this proverb to heart.
“I am a poor soldier who was orphaned in early childhood, and who, from the age of eight upwards, had to live among strangers.
“From my sixteenth to my twenty-fourth year I have been a wanderer in the world, and my experiences have been mingled of good and evil.