After a few seconds dead silence, the Englishman said, “Who are you?”
“That’s my business.”
“It’s my business to find out.”
“Well, find out.”
“Let me see your papers.”
“I will not.”
“If you don’t let me see your papers, I will take you up to the Base Court.”
“You won’t take me any place—understand that?”
I paid the frightened little waitress. The English Tommies were taking eyefulls instead of mouthsfull. I was angered. I was minding my own business. Why could not the Englishman mind his. The more I thought of it, the warmer I got. Turning to him I said, “You not only don’t mind your own business, but you don’t know where you are. You are in France, where soldiers are treated as men.”
Half an hour later, the Englishman, accompanied by a Frenchman in uniform, stopped me in the street. The Frenchman spoke,—