the kind of fear that a man looks back on and becomes ashamed of. but the kind of fear that enters into a man when any other man would be afraid too.

Art stood looking from his Sergeant to the prisoner. Suddenly the Sergeant spat in Karl's face. Karl reacted to this. His arms came up and his strong hands made fists as if to swing on the Sergeant. For a single instant he forgot his identity as a prisoner, that state requiring ever-viligence, and he became the insulted young man. Perhaps Prussian, but still most human being.

Art was about to speak, to remind the Sergeant that the prisoner could not understand English, when with a sudden horror he noted the Sergeant wore at his side a forty-five automatic. In an almost unfollowably fast movement the Sergeant ripped the gun from its holster and pointed it at the prisoner. Art could see the muscles of the Sergeant's face tightening, and he knew this was in anticipation of the recoil from the gun that would go off in a moment, as soon as the finger upon the trigger was finished with the cycle of squeezing. Without thinking and quicker than the eye could follow the movement, Art jumped in front of Karl and at the same time struck the Sergeant's arm with his own, thus deflecting the shot that was not to be fired to the ground.

Sergeant Gordon looked at Art. He was enraged. Then he realized what the

consequences could have been if he had shot and killed the German. He looked

at Art and said. "Thanks kid."

The Sergeant of course did not understand the real reason for Art's action. He only knew that he almost had been in a lot of trouble. Gordon looked at the prisoner again and remembered the cause of the incident. He turned to Art and said, "Take this man to the barracks and see that he gets a shirt on. Two other prisoners in the line spoke rapidly in German to Karl, explaining what was required to be done. They understood English. As Art made move to go, one of these prisoners explained that Karl knew and would go quietly and that he was sorry to cause this trouble.

The two young men started off toward the barracks, Karl in front, Art behind. Sergeant Gordon called loudly to Art, "Hurry him up; if he isn't back here at once he won't eat."

Karl bunked in the third barracks down from the mess hall. He led the way without hesitation and in a few moments was beside his bunk slipping his shirt over his head.

Art stood at the foot of the bed and watched. The prisoner came toward the aisle and Art moved to the side to let the prisoner resume his place, several yards in front.

By this time Karl had made up his mind about what to do. Instead of pivoting to his left and marching down the barracks to the door he turned to his right and quickly came to one knee in front of Art. Grasping Art's hand he pressed it to his face, and then kissed it; very quickly but very definitely. Five minutes ago the idea of kneeling before another man in this manner, even to a comrade in his own army who had saved his life, would have been unthinkable let alone accomplished! The impossible Prussian pride.

At first Art was confused, but automatically he drew the prisoner to his feet, all the time tolerating the grip on his hand. The unashamed grip. When Karl stood erect the two men looked into each other's face. Then they both smiled broadly. Art put his right arm over Karl's left shoulder and their two bodies pressed closely in a manly embrace for ever so short a time; but long enough that neither would

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