The road was blocked by some gigantic baking ovens on wheels. Hundreds
of boys, big seventeen-year-old boys with guns, and little limping
fellows from thirteen to sixteen, wearing bright rugs rolled over their
shoulders, were dragging along in single file. Their faces were white,
and their noses red, sergeants were beating the backward ones along with
a ramrod. One of them said--
"I have eaten nothing for three days--give me bread." We had no bread,
but we discovered some Petit-Beurre biscuits, and left him turning them
over and over.
The whole town buzzed: motor cars, surrounded by curses, insinuated
their way through the crammed streets; whips were cracking, men were
quarrelling but all had their faces turned towards the road to Rashka,
which we realized would be as full as at straphanging time in the Tube.
The boys passed us, then we passed them. They passed us again. Hundreds
of Austrian prisoners were being hurried along, goodness knows where.
Neat young clerks, suit case in hand, elbowed their way through the
crowd.
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