With the German Wrecking Crew


When we came out of the little taverne at Beaumont, to start--as we
fondly supposed--for Brussels, it was pitch dark in the square of the
forlorn little town. With us the polite and pleasant fiction that we
were guests of the German authorities had already worn seedy, not to say
threadbare, but Lieutenant Mittendorfer persisted in keeping the little
romance alive. For, as you remember, we had been requested--requested,
mind you, and not ordered--to march to the station with the armed escort
that would be in charge of the prisoners of war, and it had been
impressed upon us that we were to assist in guarding the convoy,
although no one of us had any more deadly weapon in his possession than
a fountain pen; and finally, according to our instructions, if any
prisoner attempted to escape in the dark we were to lay detaining hands
upon him and hold him fast.

This was all very flattering and very indicative of the esteem in which
the military authorities of Beaumont seemed to hold us. But we were not
puffed up with a sense of our new responsibilities. Also we were as a
unit in agreeing that under no provocation would we yield to temptations
to embark on any side-excursions upon the way to the railroad.
Personally I know that I was particularly firm upon this point. I would
defy that column to move so fast that I could not keep up with it.

In the black gloom we could make out a longish clump of men who stood
four abreast, scuffling their feet upon the miry wet stones of the
square. These were the prisoners--one hundred and fifty Frenchmen and
Turcos, eighty Englishmen and eight Belgians. From them, as we drew