Paths of Glory by Irvin S. Cobb — Read

When we came out of the little taverne at Beaumont, to start -- as we / fondly supposed -- for Brussels, it was pitch dark in the square of the / forlorn little town. With us the polite and pleasant fiction that we / were guests of the German authorities had already worn seedy, not to say / threadbare, but Lieutenant Mittendorfer persisted in keeping the little / romance alive. For, as you remember, we had been requested -- requested, / mind you, and not ordered -- to march to the station with the armed escort / that would be in charge of the prisoners of war, and it had been / impressed upon us that we were to assist in guarding the convoy, / although no one of us had any more deadly weapon in his possession than / a fountain pen; and finally, according to our instructions, if any / prisoner attempted to escape in the dark we were to lay detaining hands / upon him and hold him fast.

This was all very flattering and very indicative of the esteem in which / the military authorities of Beaumont seemed to hold us. But we were not / puffed up with a sense of our new responsibilities. Also we were as a / unit in agreeing that under no provocation would we yield to temptations / to embark on any side-excursions upon the way to the railroad. / Personally I know that I was particularly firm upon this point. I would / defy that column to move so fast that I could not keep up with it.