“Get its name, rank, and serial number,” said the sleepy voice.
Kurt didn’t wait to hear any more. Disentangling himself from the head-dress with some difficulty, he hurled it aside and pelted back down the corridor.
Lieutenant Dixon wandered back into the cell with a crestfallen look on his face. Colonel Harris and the old sergeant were so deeply engrossed in a game of “rockets high” that they didn’t even see him at first. Kurt coughed and the colonel looked up.
“Change your mind?”
“No, sir,” said Kurt. “Something slipped.”
“What?” asked the colonel.
“Sergeant Wetzel’s war bonnet. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sank down on his bunk and buried his head in his hands.
“Excuse me,” said the sergeant apologetically, “but if the lieutenant’s through with my pants I’d like to have them back. There’s a draft in here.”
Kurt silently exchanged clothes and then moodily walked over to the grille that barred the window and stood looking out.
“Why not go upstairs to officers’ country and out that way?” suggested the sergeant, who hated the idea of being overpowered for nothing. “If you can get to the front gate without one of the staff spotting you, you can walk right out. The sentry never notices faces, he just checks for insignia.”