"I am no longer young," he wrote in effect, for I am not quoting him exactly, "and I hope my friends will not forget me, in case of an exchange of prisoners."
He will never be forgotten. But of course he does not realise that. He is sixty-four and very ill. One read through all the restraint of the letter his longing to die among his own people. He hopes he will not be forgotten in an exchange of prisoners!
The Commandant's orderly announced that coffee was served, and we followed the lamp across the hall. An English officer made a fourth at the table.
It was good coffee, served with cream, the first I had seen for weeks. With it the Commandant served small, very thin cakes, with a layer of honey in the centre. "A specialty of the country," he said.
We talked of many things: of the attitude of America toward the war, her incredulity as to atrocities, the German propaganda, and a rumour that had reached the front of a German-Irish coalition in the House of Representatives at Washington.
From that the talk drifted to uniforms. The Commandant wished that the new French uniforms, instead of being a slaty blue, had been green, for use in the spring fighting.
I criticised the new Belgian uniform, which seemed to me much thinner than the old.
"That is wrong. It is of excellent cloth," said the General, and brought his cape up under the lamp for examination.
The uniforms of three armies were at the table—the French, the Belgian and the English. It was possible to compare them under the light of a single lamp.
The General's cloak, in spite of my criticism, was the heaviest of the three. But all of them seemed excellent. The material was like felt in body, but much softer.