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.