I dressed myself in my berth—­the space below was too full already, and I thought I could face it better with my clothes on.  When I got down, the hut was nearly empty, but a Gordon Highlander who went out of the door a few feet ahead of me was slashed at by one of the N.C.O.’s and jumped out of the way just in time.

All this was preliminary to roll-call, when we were all lined up to answer to our names.  That morning the soup had lost what small resemblance it had had to soup—­it had no more nourishment in it than dishwater.  We began then to see that they were going to starve every one into a desire to work.

We had not been taking soup in the morning, for it was, even at its best, a horrible dish to begin the day with.  We had made tea or coffee of our own, and eaten something from our parcels.  But this morning we were lined up with the Russians and given soup—­whether we wanted it or not.

After the soup, the working parties were despatched, and then the three unhappy Russians were started on their endless journey again, racing up and down, up and down, with an N.C.O. standing in the middle to keep them going.  They looked pale and worn from their hard experience of the night before, but no Bengal tiger ever had less mercy than the N.C.O., who kept them running.

The distance across the end of the yard was about seventy-five feet, and up and down the Russians ran.  Their pace was a fast trot, but before long they were showing signs of great fatigue.  They looked pitifully at us as they passed us, wondering what it was all about, and so did we.  We expected every minute it would be over; surely they had been punished enough.  But the cruel race went on.

In an hour they were begging for mercy, whimpering pitifully, as they gasped out the only German word they knew—­“Kamerad—­Kamerad”—­to the N.C.O., who drove them on.  They begged and prayed in their own language; a thrust of the bayonet was all the answer they got.

Their heads rolled, their tongues protruded, their lips frothed, their eyes were red and scalded—­and one fell prostrate at the feet of the N.C.O., who, stooping over, rolled back his eyelid to see if he were really unconscious or was feigning it.  His examination proved the latter to be the case, and I saw the Commandant motion to him to kick the Russian to his feet.  This he did with right good will, and the weary race went on.

But the Russian’s race was nearly ended, for in another half-dozen rounds he fell, shuddering and moaning, to the ground—­and no kick or bayonet thrust could rouse him...

Another one rolled over and over in a fit, purple in the face, and twitching horribly.  He rolled over and over until he fell into the drain, and lay there, unattended.

The last one, a very wiry fellow, kept going long after the other two, his strength a curse to him now, for it prolonged his agony, but he fell out at last, and escaped their cruelty, at least for the time, through the black door of unconsciousness.