Presently he moved across to where the new pile was forming. The prisoners worked methodically but slowly. When out of ear-shot of the guards they conversed in low tones. One of their number, a round-faced youth of twenty-two or thereabouts, was working by himself, carrying long iron bolts. Nelson observed that he wasn’t overburdening himself and that he looked quite satisfied with conditions. The second time he passed he looked across at Nelson, smiled and said: “Hello, kid!” Nelson said “Hello” in reply before he was struck with the oddity of the phrase from the lips of a German prisoner of war. Coming back again the youth stopped.
“How’s everything in America?” he asked. He spoke with very little accent.
“All right,” answered Nelson.
“I used to live there,” went on the other. “St. Louis. Great town, St. Louis. I lived there eight years. Say, were those American soldiers on those ships?”
“Yes.”
“Honest?”
Nelson replied in the affirmative again and the German looked thoughtful. “If that’s true they lied to us,” he said. “In Berlin they told us the Yankees wouldn’t come. They say that yet, I think. Are you telling the truth?”
“Of course! If you’ve lived in St. Louis you ought to know an American soldier when you see one.”
The other shook his head. “I never saw any when I was there. Well, I guess this war won’t last much longer, eh?”
“I hope not.”