"
"They know that," chimed in the man lying next to him; "or they would not
drug us. Why, when we stormed La Haye I knew nothing until an
ugly-looking German spat a pint of blood into my face and woke me up."
A middle-aged sergeant, who had a wound in the stomach and was sitting up
in his bed, looked across. "There was a line of Germans came upon us,"
he said, "at Bras. I thought I must be suffering from a nightmare when I
saw them. They had thrown away their rifles and had all joined hands.
They came dancing towards us just like a row of ballet girls. They were
shrieking and laughing, and they never attempted to do anything. We just
waited until they were close up and then shot them down. It was like
killing a lot of kids who had come to have a game with us. The one I
potted got his arms round me before he coughed himself out, calling me
his 'liebe Elsa,' and wanting to kiss me. Lord! You can guess how the
Boche ink-slingers spread themselves over that business: 'Sonderbar!
Colossal! Unvergessliche Helden.' Poor devils!"
"They'll give us ginger before it is over," said another.
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