"If we follow the tracks, we're sure to reach a town eventually, yes?" The prisoner asked, with a tone of tired exasperation.
Francis shook his head; it seemed like they'd been walking for days, weeks, always in the eerily silent, snowy half-light. "I don't think it works that way anymore."
The prisoner stopped short, exclaimed, "I don't hear the guns!"
Francis stopped also. He listened, looked up, let the snow fall on his face and begin to melt. "Me either. For a while now I think."
The prisoner sighed, and rubbed his hands together for warmth before shoving them back under his armpits. "I would rather not freeze to death in Belgium."
Francis shrugged. "If I'm right, we don't have to worry about that anymore."
The prisoner furrowed his brow, then shook his head in confusion. "Still, we must walk. Come, Corporal, march!" He started down the tracks. "Nicht schleppen!"