He was roused shortly before morning by some one who shook him gently
but persistently, and at last he sat up, looking around in the dim light
for the person who had dragged him back from peace to a battle-mad
world. He saw an unkempt, bearded man in a French uniform, one sleeve
stained with blood, and he recognized Weber, the Alsatian.
"Why, Weber!" he exclaimed, "they've got you, too! This is bad! They
may consider you, an Alsatian, a traitor, and execute you at once!"
Weber smiled in rather melancholy fashion, and said in a low tone:
"It's bad enough to be captured, but I won't be shot Nobody here knows
that I'm an Alsatian, and consequently they will think I'm a Frenchman.
If you call me anything, call me Fernand, which is my first name, but
which they will take for the last."
"All right, Fernand. I'll practice on it now, so I'll make no slip. How
did you happen to be taken?"
"I was in a motor car, a part of a train of about a hundred cars. There
were seven in it besides myself. We were ordered to cross a field and
join a line of advancing infantry. When we were in the middle of the
field a masked German battery of rapid-firers opened on us at short
range. It was an awful experience, like a stroke of lightning, and I
don't think that more than a dozen of us escaped with our lives. I was
wounded in the arm and taken before I could get out of the field. I was
brought here with some other prisoners and I have been sleeping on the
ground just beyond that hillock.
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