Some of them think they are
in Germany still. They're an ignorant lot."
An American came in rather hesitatingly, but without nodding to the
French.
"We've got bacon-chips in our camp," he said, addressing Fanny directly.
"I don't like to bring them in here, but if you'd just step
across ... it isn't a stone's throw."
She did not like to desert the French, but she was sick with hunger, and
rose. She knew she would have nothing from the guard-house meal, for
they probably had the same ration as she--one piece of meat, two potatoes,
and one sardine a man.
After all, food was more important than sentiment, and she followed him
out of the hut.
"You won't get anything from those skinflints," said the American, "so
we thought you'd better come and have some chips."
"Because they have nothing to give," she answered, half inclined to
turn back. The American barracks were opposite, and in the yard, under a
shelter of planks, the men were eating round a complicated travelling
kitchen on wheels. "They have all the latest, richest things," thought
Fanny, jealous for the French, antagonistic, yet hungry. But when she
was among the Americans, they were simple and kind to her, offering her
a great tray of fried bacon chips, concerned that she should have to eat
them with her hand, washing out their tin mugs and filling them with
coffee for her, making her sit on a barrel while she ate.
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