One was what an American captain called a "peach"; but it was a
Frenchman who told it: the American contingent have had no such
adventures yet.
The thing happened some time ago, before the "liveliness" died down
along this _secteur_. One spring day, in a rainy fog like a gray
curtain, a strange pair of legs appeared, prowling alongside a French
trench. They were not French legs; but instantly two pairs of French
arms darted out under the stage-drop of fog to jerk them in. Down came a
_feldwebel_ on top of them, squealing desolately "Kamerad!" He squealed
many more guttural utterances, but not one of the soldiers in blue
helmets, who soon swarmed round him, could understand a word he said.
"Why the crowd?" wondered the Captain of the company, appearing from a
near-by dug-out. The queer quarry was dragged to the officer's feet, and
fortunately the Captain, an Alsatian, had enough German for a catechism.
"What were you doing close to our lines?" he demanded.
"Oh, Herr Captain, I did not know they were your lines. I thought they
were ours. In our trench we are hungry, very hungry. I thought in the
mist I could safely go a little way and seek for some potatoes. Where we
are they say there was once a fine potato field. Not long ago, one of
our men came back with half a dozen beauties. Ah, they were good! I was
empty enough to risk anything, Herr Captain. But I had no luck. And,
worse still, the fog led me astray.
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