I shrug my shoulders. "People feel angry at the English. Our soldiers assert that they waved white flags and then threw hand grenades."
"I don't know anything about that. That may have been the case earlier, but I have been in the war only eight days. A week ago I was in Newcastle with my wife."
He takes a tin case from under his shirt, opens it, and looks at it for a long time. Then he shows me the case, which contains the picture of a woman, his wife. Then he takes a piece of paper from his trousers pocket and shows me that, too. A name and address are written on it.
"That is the man who bound up my wound on the field of battle. He was very good to me. After the war I shall write to him."
After a long period of silence he begins to talk again. But I do not think further conversation timely. I only pay attention once and that is when he explains to me his grade in the service and his rate of pay. He is something like a Sergeant and says, pointing to his insignia: "A common soldier gets only so much; with this insignia he gets so much more, and when he has both, as I have, he gets so much." He names the munificent sum with visible pride.
II—"A BELGIAN IN GERMAN UNIFORM"
Then the door opens and my comrade announces in a tone that implies something unusual: "A Belgian in a German uniform." I look at the man in astonishment. Why is he allowed to run around without any guard in particular? The expression of his face is rather stupid. He sits down near the stove and crosses his legs comfortably. I ask him how he got the uniform. He answers in Flemish. Before an explanation is possible the hospital corps men bring in six or seven Englishmen on stretchers. Now quick work is necessary. Mattresses must be spread out on the floor and the people changed from bed to bed. The room is filled with inquisitive hospital corps men and soldiers. I shove them all out. When the door is finally closed again I count my prisoners and find the Belgian is missing. I rush outside to look around the station platform. There stands my Belgian on the doorstep. I seize his arm in an almost friendly manner and invite him to come inside again. At last he tells me how he got the uniform. He insists he got it in the hospital in the place of his own tattered one. I shake my head increduously, but the chaffeur who brought the prisoner hurries up and verifies the story.
Now the station commandant comes along and is also of the opinion that the prisoner must get some other kind of clothing. "But," he orders, "first ask the staff doctor if his uniform can be taken off without any danger to his wounds." I don't have to do this, because the wound is on his upper thigh. I hunt up an unclaimed English cloak and, with visible relief, the Belgian warrior crawls out of the German lion's skin.
III—PRISON KEEPER TELLS HIS STORY