We were brought to our feet by a command, and conducted by a guard to a shattered house, where we found ourselves in the presence of a black-headed, blotch-faced, severe-looking officer, who began to question us in imperfect English. Then, as we were unable to understand his questions, and he equally unable to understand our replies, he spoke a few guttural words to an orderly, who saluted and went away.
As I stood at attention looking the ill-natured officer in the face, I noticed some one stop at my side and brush my elbow never so slightly, as if in warning, and at the same time slip something into my side pocket.
I turned my head to look, and saw Lieutenant Jonathan Nickerson in the uniform of a German officer, clicking his heels and saluting his superior. It took all my resolution to appear unconcerned. I was so astonished that I could have been knocked down with a straw. But I knew I must be on my guard.
Under direction of the officer, Jot, whom I took to be his aide, began to question me.
“You are Americans?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What regiment?”
We answered that question and several other correctly.
“How came you inside our lines?”
“We had been made prisoners, but escaped, and at the time your men captured us, we were trying to get through your lines to our own.”