This morning I ask one of the more kindly-disposed soldiers if he is not afraid of death.
“I must do my duty,” he says simply. “But I feel the cord tightening round my neck each day.”
He looks pale and pinched, as though disease, not rifle fire, would be his end.
“I was out scouting in the woods last night, Fräulein,” he tells me later. “It is so cold, so eerie, and then one only gets a couple of hours’ sleep when the dawn comes. There are horrible things in the woods, Fräulein—shapes and monstrosities. The pine dust powders under the horse’s feet and the green boughs go “swish” in one’s face just as one turns on the electric torch, thinking to have spotted a rascally Frenchman——”
“—And you did?” I asked breathlessly.
He rubs a hand over his convict-cropped head and looks modestly triumphant.
“Two, Fräulein. Both dead. Straight, clean shots. Couldn’t miss.”
I start up, trying to recall to an elusive memory my amateurish knowledge of first aid.
The Cuirassier smiles. “Really dead, Fräulein. We could only find one. I buried him very near the top because the ground was hard. Here is his number.”
He compares it with his metal one, slung from his neck by a cord. A brown leather purse is attached by the same means.