which had made us unable to think of anything other than food, would at last cease.
Those who have not gone through a similar experience can hardly conceive of the soul-destroying mental conflict
and clashes of will power which a famished man experiences.
They can hardly grasp what it means to stand digging in a trench,
listening only for the siren to announce 9:30 or 10:00 A.M.—the half-hour lunch interval—
when bread would be rationed out (as long as it was still available);
repeatedly asking the foreman—if he wasn’t a disagreeable fellow— what the time was;
and tenderly touching a piece of bread in one’s coat pocket, first stroking it with frozen gloveless fingers,
then breaking off a crumb and putting it in one’s mouth and finally, with the last bit of will power,
pocketing it again, having promised oneself that morning to hold out till afternoon.
We could hold endless debates on the sense or nonsense of certain methods of dealing with the small bread ration,
which was given out only once daily during the latter part of our confinement.
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