The Washington times., 1931-10-17
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UbACus 4NOHA w NV S~N~@
few tins Of American outlets,
and the dog is squatting watch
fully beside him.
The flickering Of the fire
throws copper CLEANS through
his red hair. Mists are gather
ing from the meadows. The
stars twinkle. We sit down be-
side him and fish our potatoes
from the fire. The skins are
burned black, but the inside is
golden yellow and fragrant.
We grasp the outlets in both
hands and saw away at them
as If they were mouth organs.
And we wash them down with
schnapps out of our aluminium
cups.
Excellent Food
Potatoes! How good they
taste! And where are we ex'
actly? Has the earth returned
on her tracks? Are we children
again, sitting in the field near
Torloxten? Haven't we been
digging potatoes all day in the
strong smelling earth and be-
hind us with baskets, red
checked girls in faded blue
dresses? And now the potato
fire!. White miStS trailing over
the field, the fire cracking and
the rest all still. The potatoes.
they were the last fruit. Now
all is gathered in-now only the
earth, the clean air, the loved,
bitter, white smoke the end OF
the harvest.
Bitter smoke, bitter smell of
the harvest, potato fire of our
childhood. Wraiths of mist
drift up, draw together and
withdraw-faces of comrades.
We are marching, the war is
ended-all is melting, diSsolv-
ing away-potato fires have
come to their own again, and
the harvest and life.
"Ah, Willy! Willy! My boy!"
''This is the stuff, eh?" says
he, looking up, his hands full
Of meat and potatoes.
Ach, fathead, I was mean
ing something far different.
No More Shells
The fire has burned out.
Willy wipes his hands on his
breeches and shuts his knife
with a snap. A few dogs are
barking in the village-other.
wise all is quiet. No more
shells. No clatter of munition
columns. No more the wary
scrunching of ambulance cars.
A night in which far fewer
men will die than ever in the
last four years.
We win go back into the
inn. But there is not much
doing now. Valentin has taken
off his tunic, and stands up on
his hands a few times. The
girls applaud, but Valentin is
dissatisfied. Il was a good
artist once, Ferdinand. But
that won't do, not even for the
village fairs" he says gloomily
to Kosole. "Gone stiff in the
joints, have. Valentini's ia.
nous turn on the horizontal
bar-that was a thing to gaze
on, can tell you. And now
I've got rheumatics."
ZACH, you be thankful you've
got any bones left at ALL" says
Kosole and crashes his hand
down on the table. Music!
Willy!"
Homeyer sets to work with
u will on kettledrum and rat
ties. Things begin to be lively
again.
Ludwig Breyer is seated at
the table. pale and still. He
ought to have been asleep long
ago, but he does not want to
go. His arm is healing well
and the dysentery has improved
slightly. But he remains turned
in upon himself and troubled.
I sit down beside him.
"Arent t you glad to be going
home?" I ask him.
He Stands Alone
He gets up and goes away. I
cannot make. him out. Later I
discover him outside, standing
alone. I question him no more.
We go inside again in silence.
Wine is running over the
table. the lamp is smoking, and
the girls spirits are high. A
warm, damp weariness drifts
lightly at the back of my brow,
everything has soft, blurred
edges, like star shells seen
through fog: my head sinks
slowly down upon the table.
Then the night roars on.
smoothly and wonderful, like
an express train, across the
country. Soon we are at home.
For the last time we stand
drawn up in the barracks
square. Part of the company
lives here in the neighborhood
and they are being disbanded.
The rest of us must make our
own way, for the railway SER
vices are so irregular that we
cannot be transported farther
in a body. Now we must sepa-
rate.
Much Too Big.
The wide, gray square is
much too big for US. Across