Our soldier prisoners have quickly finished their meagre repast which the parsimonious German Government doles out to them. Then almost all of them stretch themselves on the ground in the genial rays of the sun and give their bodies a well-earned rest. Soon their eyes are closed; sleep overtakes them.
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Seated on the trunk of a felled oak, two young fellows listen to a third, who is translating an article from a German newspaper, brought that morning by a kindly jailer. While eating they talk over the news and criticise the communiqué of the German staff at Berlin. All three—the interpreter of the fatigue party and the two who were listening to him—had come of their own accord to this fatigue work in order to escape the monotony of the camp, and, by working, to seek a palliative from the ennui that was killing them.
The sentinel who was on duty while his comrades were taking their meal approached the little group and deferentially asked: “What news?”
The German communiqué that day was very concise. The interpreter pointed it out to the sentinel, curtly enough to make him understand that he had no wish, for the moment at least, to enter into conversation. He was occupied in translating a long and subtle article about the torpedoing of the Lusitania. But the German took no notice; he wished to talk, to hold forth; he broached another subject, and inquired about the quality of the food.
“Schmeckt es gut?”
A cry of horror and indignation greeted this question.
“It is pig’s food, it is shameful to feed human creatures with such stuff.”
“Oh, you French, you are hard to please!”
“You think we are hard to please not to like rotten food?” asked the interpreter.