Seen by the glare of his own fire he seemed a clod, fit only
to make soups and feed a fire box. But by that same flickery light I
saw something. On the breast of his grease-spattered blouse dangled a
black-and-white ribbon with a black-and-white Maltese cross fastened to
it. I marveled that a company cook should wear the Iron Cross of the
second class and I asked the captain about it. He laughed at the wonder
that was evident in my tones.
"If you will look more closely," he said, "you will see that a good many
of our cooks already have won the Iron Cross since this war began, and a
good many others will yet win it--if they live. We have no braver men
in our army than these fellows. They go into the trenches at least
twice a day, under the hottest fire sometimes, to carry hot coffee and
hot food to the soldiers who fight. A good many of them have already
been killed.
"Only the other day--at La Fere I think it was--two of our cooks at
daybreak went so far forward with their wagon that they were almost
inside the enemy's lines.
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