I was in considerable pain and constantly cried out when hurried; for I intended to emphasize my injuries for purposes of my own. My captors were, apparently, disgusted with me. They talked and gestured until I began to fear that they were debating whether or not to lessen their trouble by knocking me on the head. Finally they picked up a discarded rifle, halted, and fitted a piece of wood in the muzzle, and handing it to me, made motions that I was to use it for a crutch. That night, while shut in the room of a partially ruined dwelling, I was helped to wash, and put cold water bandages on my hurts and slept fairly well. In the morning the pain from my sprain was mostly gone. I washed my wounded arm and wet and rewound my bandages. I could have walked had I chose; but I determined to keep that hurt for strategic use; for I had firmly resolved not to go to a German prison. Their reputation as providers was so bad that, to use expressive slang, “I couldn’t see it.” All the food I was given up to that time was some coarse wheat bread and not a scrap of meat; and some hot water bewitched into imitation of coffee. But the guards themselves did not have any better fare so far as I could see. One of my two guards was a clean-faced, good-looking German boy who seemed of a higher class than his heavy-faced comrade. He took my crutch from me and made motions that I was to stand. I tried to look meek and obedient, and cried out and buckled up with pretended pain. Seeing this, he restored my rifle crutch, and put one hand under my arm to help me as I limped painfully along. While I was on the outlook for a chance to use my crutch for a club and my legs for escape, my hopes were dashed by the guard taking me to a large house, around which sentinels were stationed. After a parley with a sentinel who was pacing the broad doorway, I was conducted into a large room where were several officers, orderlies and clerks, some of them writing at a big table, on which were spread maps, papers, and big books that looked like ledgers. No notice was taken of me at first. The clerks continued writing, the officers talking, until there bustled into the room a tall, blond officer with several decorations flashing on his breast, and an air of decision and command that can not be expressed in words. The other officers clicked their heels and saluted, the clerks did the same. The officer made a careless but graceful acknowledgment by return salute, spoke a few sharp guttural words that set several of the officers and attendants hustling and addressed a few words to a man, who but for his uniform looked like a clerk. Then turning to me, he motioned for me to stand, and in good English interrogated: “What is your regiment?” I told him, for I could not see how he could get any good out of the truth. “Oh,” he said, “a Massachusetts man. What part?” “Western Massachusetts, Berkshire county.” “Your name?” “Second Lieutenant David Stark.” “How many men have you here?”