In the squad was one big,
broad-shouldered peasant in a blouse, whose arms were roped back at the
elbows with a thick cord.
"Do you see that man?" said one of our guards excitedly, and he pointed
at the pinioned man. "He is a grave robber. He has been digging up
dead Germans to rob the bodies. They tell me that when they caught him
he had in his pockets ten dead men's fingers which he had cut off with a
knife because the flesh was so swollen he could not slip the rings off.
He will be shot, that fellow."
We looked with a deeper interest then at the man whose arms were bound,
but privately we permitted ourselves to be skeptical regarding the
details of his alleged ghoulishness. We had begun to discount German
stories of Belgian atrocities and Belgian stories of German atrocities.
I might add that I am still discounting both varieties.
To help along our train two more little engines were added, but even
with four of them to draw and to shove their load was now so heavy that
we were jerked along with sensations as though we were having a jaw
tooth pulled every few seconds.
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