On this first morning we elected to visit the playing-field allotted to the camp, which is situated about a mile distant from it. To the professional eye of one of our number, an old internationalist, it will serve for football, but not for cricket.
On the other side of the road, behind a Gasthof, and just on the edge of a strip of forest, there was a tennis court, but it had obviously not been played on for many a day. We at once commenced clearing the ground, a task in which we were soon being aided by mein Herr of the Gasthof—who is proprietor of the court—his wife, and his daughters.
One of the girls has a rake, which she playfully aims at Lieutenant Kruggel, who promptly throws up his arms and cries, “Kamarad!”
THE STORK TOWER, BEESKOW.
As we returned, a bald-headed, elderly gentleman standing behind the gate of a villa garden spat upon the ground, and treated us to a mouthful or two of morning hate. Lieutenant Kruggel apologized profusely. Strange that the civilian should be uncivil—the soldier never.
Birds of a Feather
In the little courtyard three or four white fan-tailed pigeons fluttered about the roofs, like peace birds prematurely arrived from oversea, while on the other side of the barbed wire was a small colony of rabbits and poultry and pigs, the property of the German guard. Then there was Jacob, a ferocious and fearless jackdaw with clipped wings, who was not indisposed to be friendly, however. Certainly we were companions in misfortune, my wings not less thoroughly clipped than his. Ultimately, while I read, or even sketched, he would lie on his back in my hand with his legs in the air, ever and anon opening a drowsy eye. Long before I had seen them, however, he would have greeted several of his own kind, if not his own kin, wheeling round the old tower, and they would return answer.
