"Don't throttle me," Ginger murmured, scarcely able to speak from physical exhaustion and the reaction from mental strain. "Are you the Rutlands?"
"No, we ain't. Got a special fancy for the Rutlands, 'eemingly."
"I'm Murgatroyd, No. 939, 17th battalion, 3rd company, 1st platoon," said Ginger feebly.
"Oh, we know all about that. You German blighters all speak English, but you don't come it over us."
"Silence, Barnet; bring him along," said the officer.
"Yes, sir. Says he's a Rutland, sir."
Ginger was taken along the dark trench to a dug-out lit by a candle-lamp. The lieutenant looked at him. The uniform was German, from helmet to boots: the Iron Cross was on his breast; but the dirty, lined, unshaven face was not that of a German officer.
"Who do you say you are?" said the lieutenant, puzzled.
"Murgatroyd, lance-corporal in the 17th Rutlands, sir: called Ginger, sir: look at my hair."
He removed the helmet. The lieutenant laughed.