“Ah!—Now, what is the last thing you can remember in France? You were in the trenches, I suppose?”
“No—we had left the trenches behind us. We were fighting in the forest—I can remember that—a sort of ravine with splintered trees—we were attacking——” A new note of interest came into his voice, a satisfaction at recovering these memories. “By George, yes! Of course, there was a terrific attack on—we were going for the Kriemhild Line. What happened——?” He hesitated. “I was running forward—the Boche was shelling like mad——” He seemed to be visualizing a scene, his face screwed up, his eyes narrowed, his lower lip between his teeth. “I saw a whole bunch go down—and then——” He stopped.
“And then?”
“A sheet of flame. I—I can’t remember anything more. I—I must have been hit, I suppose——”
“I see. Now, can you remember what you were wearing just then?”
“I was in shirt and breeches. My tunic had been torn off the day before—breaking through the undergrowth. I remember that perfectly.”
Satterthwaite nodded.
“And your identity disc?”
“I’d lost that the day before also—I remember thinking I should have to get a new one.”
Satterthwaite smiled.