He paused.
“What was that?” George asked.
Mr. Moreton smiled. “I remember the words exactly. ‘During this night’-I quote from the war diary-‘Franz Schirmer, a Sergeant, left the detachment under his command, saying that he was going to succour a Dragoon who had lagged behind because of a lame horse. When morning came, Sergeant Schirmer had not rejoined his detachment. There was found to be no other man missing from it, nor any who had lagged behind. Accordingly, the name of Franz Schirmer was posted in the list of deserters.’ ”
For a moment or two there was silence. “Well?” added Mr. Moreton. “What do you think of that?”
“Schirmer, did you say?”
“That’s right. Sergeant Franz Schirmer, S-c-h-i-r-m-e-r.”
George laughed. “The old bastard,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“So all that stuff he told his son Hans about the cowardly Prussians leaving him for dead was-”
“Bull,” said Mr. Moreton dryly. “But you see the implications.”