“As I was at Eben-Emael.”
“No, he had a sabre cut.”
“It does not matter. It is the same. Go on, please.”
George went on again. The Sergeant’s eyes were fixed on him intently. He interrupted again.
“Food? What food had he?”
“Some frozen potatoes he’d taken from a barn.” George smiled. “You know, Sergeant, I’ve got the complete account of all this written out by Franz Schirmer’s second son, Hans. That’s the one who emigrated to America. He wrote it out for his children, to show them what a fine man their grandfather had been.”
“You have this here?”
“I have a copy at the hotel in Florina.”
“I may see it?” He was eager now.
“Sure. You can have it. You’ll probably have the original eventually. I guess all the family papers are rightfully yours.”