In talk we turned over the art treasures of Venice and Florence, and when I referred to Dante, and particularly to the episode of Paolo and Francesca, the Colonel produced from his breast pocket a little marked copy of the “Divina Commedia,” in a chamois-leather case, which he had carried through the campaign, and read me the passage in Italian. Followed cigarettes, and a joint vow that if we foregathered in London our dinner at the Trocadero would be completed by just such a cup of coffee--_à la_ Carlsruhe! Some time later, while he was being changed to another camp, the gallant Colonel succeeded in effecting his escape. In retrospect the menu at Carlsruhe seems to have consisted of interminable plates of soup, followed by sauerkraut and anæmic potatoes. No effort was made--nor was there any need--to stimulate our appetites by surprise dishes or kickshaws; although on St. Patrick’s Day a wild rumour went round the camp that we were to have boiled shamrock for dinner! Some officers could achieve five plates of soup at a meal; one could rarely venture to brave the day on less than three. On Thursdays and Sundays there was a morsel of meat--the veriest opening and immediate closing of the lid of the flesh pot, as it were. On certain days, apples--for which we lined up in a queue--were to be bought at the _Kantine_ at one mark per pound. Sardines cost five to six marks a tin; other prices were in proportion. FIRST LETTERS AND PARCELS The coming of one’s first letter was a memorable event in camp life. The immediate impulse was to retire with it to the remotest corner of the court--as a dog with a bone, or a lover with a _billet-doux_--and there devour it, and for days after one was continually impelled to a re-perusal. A Portuguese officer who had made a vow, Nazarite-wise, not to shave or cut his hair until such time as news would come from the far country, was three and a half months in camp before he received his first letter. Then, amid loud laughter and cries of “_Barbier! Barbier!_” he departed with the precious epistle in his hand, and later in the day made his appearance, looking not unlike a shorn lamb! The arrival of the first parcel was an event of even more general interest and import. If it were a clothing parcel it would contain a change of raiment, as grateful and as welcome as the wedding garment. If it were a food parcel it enabled you to extend pleasant hospitalities in more necessitous directions--one of the privileges and compensations of camp life. You pass your bread ration to the recently arrived officer who is your neighbour at dinner. “Do you care to have this bread, old chap? I have plenty.” He is an Australian, and there is considerably over six foot of him to be fed. He gives a gulp and a gasp now. “My God,” he says, “I thought I wasn’t to be able to say ‘Yes’ quick enough!”