A small crowd had collected. A poilu, covered with trench mud, asked, “What is the matter?”
“Oh, this fellow wants to see my papers.”
“Well, haven’t you got them?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see them.”
At[At] the first glance he saw the Foreign Legion stamp.
“Ha, ha, la Legion! I know the Legion, come along and we will have a litre of wine.”
So, we two walked away and left the crowd disputing among themselves. I remarked to the Englishman, who had stood silently watching, “I told you before, you were too ignorant to mind your own business. Now, you see you are.”
The wine disposed of, we parted. Looking back, I saw the Englishman following a hundred yards behind. He crossed the street and stood on the opposite corner. He stopped three English officers and told his little tale of woe. They crossed, in perfect time, spurs jingling, and bore down, three abreast, upon me, the pauvre poilu, who did not salute.
“You have come from England, where you have been spending your convalescence?”