Rations of bread, vegetable soup, and imitation coffee, were given us; and, after giving our names and rank, we too were marched from the enclosure and through the half-ruined village. On all sides were evidences of hasty but methodical retreat. Long lines of German infantry, light artillery and heavy guns on tractors, caissons, ammunition wagons, pontoon trains and other belongings of a monster army, were moving over the roads to the rear, or into position for defence and battle. The roads, gullied by rains, cut up by wheels of heavy gun carriages, tractors and other vehicles, were in poor condition for haste. On one side of the heavily burdened roads, directed by the guard, we picked our way. Everywhere were the German wounded, some conveyed on gun carriages, others in baggage wagons and ambulances. Some of our guard even were slightly wounded men, others were old and war-worn soldiers. About six o’clock that afternoon we came to a halt in a field where grain had been harvested and stacked. A guard was stationed around us, and we were glad to rest. The weather was hot and uncomfortable; but the sky grew suddenly darkened, and a tempest was upon us. Gordon, who had been with me during the day’s march, pretending to help me, hurried me to one of the grain stacks where with our blankets we were able partially to shelter ourselves from the rain. Soon as we had protected ourselves from the downpour, Gordon said, “We have got to escape before we get too weak from being underfed and overmarched, and they get us on a train to take us to a German prison. I have bought, begged, and stolen all the food I could get before we left that barbed wire coop where I found you. What have you got?” “Not much,” I replied; “a piece of bread about as big as my hand. I have been too confounded hungry to save more from the little that I have received.” He sat thinking for a while, and then said: “Everything will count in an escape. A starving man would be in poor shape for quick and determined action.” “Yes,” I assented, “a full stomach gives courage!” He laughed one of his inward chuckles and observed: “I guess that you are a good feeder like myself, and that you are right hungry.” “Just that,” I agreed; “but I won’t mind that if we can only get away.” “All right, comrade, we will divide up now,” he decided; “for you may have a chance to get away before I do, or if we escape together we may be separated. It ain’t much, but I am going to whack up even.” “You are a good fellow,” I said. “Where are you from?” For up to this time I had not asked that question. “Virginia,” he replied, “and I am proud of it. You are a Yank, I reckon, but I know a white man when I see him. My old dad was a Confederate soldier.” “And mine,” I said, “was a Union soldier.” “Shake!” he said, extending his hand. And we shook hands heartily. After awhile I saw him with his hands among the grain.