The black drink for which the prisoners long is called coffee, an hygienic beverage made of an infusion of roasted barley. It is drunk without sugar and constitutes the whole of the meal, “Frühstuck” (breakfast). It is with the utmost trouble that the N.C.O’s can keep in their places these frozen, impatient men. The distribution begins. Each man passes between two sergeants, who count and recognise those in their company. The ration is exactly measured, and the intrusion of soldiers belonging to another company, or an attempt to secure a second portion by those who are not satisfied, is frustrated. It is not that the beverage is agreeable to the taste or that those who take it are greedy, but it has the advantage of being boiling, and the heat it communicates lessens the early morning cold and relieves the parched throats. Few of the prisoners possess a drinking vessel. Some by ruse have succeeded in keeping the bowl in which the evening before they received their soup. Two hundred and fifty men are present, some with a half-pint measure, others with a bowl; one has a preserved meat tin, another a jam jar; these receptacles are exchanged and pass from hand to hand. Two hundred and fifty times the distributing sergeant has plunged his measure into the bucket, which now seems empty. Disappointment appears on the faces of those who hope to obtain an extra drop. Thus ends the first meal! Now we must parade for the roll-call. Under a fine and penetrating rain, which soaks and makes us shiver from head to foot, with a cutting wind entering through the holes of our ragged clothing with a keenness which makes our eyes water, the assembly takes place. The companies are deployed in lines of five rows, each before its hut. Everybody, even the sick, must be present. It is now scarcely seven o’clock. The French sergeant on duty counts his men; the head of the company, an adjutant, does the same; then an “Achtung” resounds in the greyness of the morning--it is a German non-commissioned officer, come to verify the numbers. They are not right; each counts again. But they never agree. They count, they verify line by line, they recount, all to no purpose. Some men are missing. It is never-ending! Quick! At the suggestion of a German, they borrow from a company on the left the number of men necessary to complete the effective force. It is the only way to shorten the ceremony. At last “Es stimmt.” All present. The Boche is pleased with himself. The French always make mistakes. He alone knows how to count. “Ruhe euch!” (At ease). While the German authority turns his back the men from the left run back to their own company.