the sun
shone, for a time, on Minden.

Nor was this fellow alone in these unhappy surroundings. There with him
were English civilian prisoners, clerks and school-teachers, technical
and engineering instructors, who once taught in German schools and
worked at Essen or in the shipyards. These wretched civilians, until
they were removed to Ruhleben, were not in much better case; but they
might, at least, sleep together on indescribable straw palliasses. Then
they were together; there was comfort in that at least.

By a strange turn of Fortune's wheel this very camp was placed upon the
site of the battlefield of Minden, when, as our guards would tell us, an
undegenerate England fought with the great Frederick against the French.

Moved to another camp this fellow had escaped by crawling under the
barbed wire on a dirty wet night in winter when the sentry had turned
his well-clothed back against the northern gale.

A MORAL DISASTER

All the Army is looking for the gunnery lieutenant, H.M.S. ----. Time
indeed may soften the remembrance of the evil he has done us, and in the
dim future, when we get to Dar-es-Salaam, we may even relent
sufficiently to drink with him; but now, just halfway along the dusty
road from Handeni to Morogoro, we feel that there's no torture yet
devised that would be a fitting punishment.

Strange how frail a thing is human happiness, that the small matter of a
misdirected 12-inch shell should blight the lives of a whole army and
tinge our thirsty souls with melancholy. For this clumsy projectile that
left the muzzle of the gun with the intention of wrecking the railway
station in Dar-es-Salaam became, by evil chance, deflected in its path
and struck the brewery instead. Not the office or the non-essential part
of the building, but the very heart, the mainspring of the whole, the
precious vats and machinery for making beer. And there will be no more
"lager" in German East Africa until the war is over.

All the long hot march from Kilimanjaro down the Pangani River and along
the dusty, thirsty plains we had all been sustained by the thought that
one day we would strike the Central Railway and, finding some sufficient
pretext to snatch some leave, would swiftly board a train for
Dar-es-Salaam and drink from the Fountain of East Africa. The one bright
hope that upheld us, the one beautiful dream that dragged weary
footsteps southward over that waterless, thorny desert was the
occupation of