“How regrettable,” I cried.
The officer drew himself up to his full height, and his eyes flashed as he retorted, “Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns.” (“Not for us. Not for us.”)
“Listen,” I retorted. “The intention of my remark was to convey to you how regrettable it is that a soldier of the worth of Lord Kitchener, instead of finding a glorious death on the battlefield, should have perished in the manner reported.”
“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” the Prussian insisted.
Many months passed. The man had evidently forgotten the incident of Kitchener’s death. One morning he came to my cell with face long, and expression sad. “Have you heard the awful news?” he asked me. “Richthofen has fallen.”
Richthofen, Germany’s most famous aviator, was dead after seventy-five great aerial victories.
“Yes, Richthofen has fallen,” the officer repeated. “Is it not regrettable?”
“Nicht fur uns. Nicht fur uns,” I answered without hesitation.
“How can you say that?” he said. “Is it not a matter of regret that a great hero like Richthofen should disappear?”
“Nicht fur uns,” I said again, not knowing what might be the outcome of my boldness.