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.
New prisoners are brought in--Frenchmen, Scotchmen, and Canadians. Many of the first-named cough frightfully. When they are asked where they got that, they answer that they have had it the whole Winter long. There is a lank, powerful-looking non-commissioned officer among them. He makes a sign to me and confesses confidentially that he is very hungry. I tell him he must have patience, as there will soon be coffee and bread given out.
"Bread? Black bread?" He curls up his nose. "May I not have a little pastry, perhaps?"
"You just try our black bread," is my reply. "It is the same as we have ourselves. We are better than we are supposed to be in France."