He seemed amazed at that thoughtfulness for his comfort. It was in the early days of the Somme fighting, and crowds of our men stood on the banks above a sunken road, watching the prisoners coming down. This officer who spoke to me had an Iron Cross, and the men wanted to see it and handle it.

“Will they give it back again?” he asked, nervously, fumbling at the ribbon.

“Certainly,” I assured him.

He handed it to me, and I gave it to the men, who passed it from one to the other and then back to the owner.

“Your men are extraordinary,” he said. “They are wonderful.”

One of the most interesting prisoners I met on the field of battle was a tall, black-bearded man whom I saw walking away from La Boisselle when that place was smoking with shell-bursts. An English soldier was on each side of him, and each man carried a handbag, while this black-bearded giant chatted with them.