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The Germans, pushing in, had burned certain outlying houses from which
shots had come and burst open the rest. Also they had repeated the trick
of capturing sundry luckless natives and, in their rush through the
town, driving these prisoners ahead of them as living bucklers to
minimize the danger of being shot at from the windows.
One youth showed us a raw wound in his ear. A piece of tile, splintered
by an errant bullet, had pierced it, he said, as the Germans drove him
before them. Another man told us his father--and the father must have
been an old man, for the speaker himself was in his fifties--had been
shot through the thigh. But had anybody been killed? That was what we
wanted to know. Ah, but yes! A dozen eager fingers pointed to the house
immediately behind us. There a man had been killed.
Coming back to try to save some of their belongings after the Germans
had gone through, these others had found him at the head of the cellar
steps in his blazing house. His throat had been cut and his blood was on
the floor, and he was dead.


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