"We sleep in the empty one," our confrères informed us. "You will sleep there too."
"And those in the other stall?" I asked.
"Oh, those! They are German spies captured during the day. They take them out every morning—they don't come back—fresh ones take their places."
I shuddered. "What becomes of them?" No one answered and the other Italian said: "Don't talk about such things. We too are prisoners, you know."
"Oh, no," said some one. "We are not prisoners—we are merely detained—guests of the Colonel."
That evening the Colonel clattered into the yard on horseback. About twenty of his men were loafing about. On his appearance there was a great to-do. They sprang stiffly to attention in lines on either side of the horse. I learned later that this was the regular evening ceremony when the Colonel returned from his ride. I had to admit that he cut a fine figure on a horse. His body was slender and very straight. His hair slightly grizzled, his face grim, but with always that glassy, haughty smile. He wore high boots of the finest leather. His spurs jingled. His uniform was immaculate. His cape swung jauntily over one shoulder. His sword clanged. His medals were resplendent. His head was held high as he rigidly returned the salutes. At every moment I expected to hear the orchestra's opening bars, and the Colonel proclaim in a fine baritone, "Oh, the Colonel of the regiment am I," with the soldier chorus echoing, "the Colonel of the regiment is he."
However, the Colonel dismounted into very real pools of mud and manure.
"Les correspondants Américains!" he shouted.
We lined up—hopefully—before him.
"Your automobile," he informed us curtly, "has become the property of the army. I have directed that your overcoats and other belongings, and the food you carry with you, be brought to you here. You may eat this food and also draw your daily ration of the army fare."