Sergeant Higgins' head appeared in the door. “Fall in,” he shouted. Then he added in his normal voice, “It's up and at 'em, fellers.”
Chrisfield caught his puttee on a clump of briars at the edge of the clearing and stood kicking his leg back and forth to get it free. At last he broke away, the torn puttee dragging behind him. Out in the sunlight in the middle of the clearing he saw a man in olive-drab kneeling beside something on the ground. A German lay face down with a red hole in his back. The man was going through his pockets. He looked up into Chrisfield's face.
“Souvenirs,” he said.
“What outfit are you in, buddy?”
“143rd,” said the man, getting to his feet slowly.
“Where the hell are we?”
“Damned if I know.”
The clearing was empty, except for the two Americans and the German with the hole in his back. In the distance they heard a sound of artillery and nearer the “put, put, put” of isolated machine guns. The leaves of the trees about them, all shades of brown and crimson and yellow, danced in the sunlight.
“Say, that damn money ain't no good, is it?” asked Chrisfield.
“German money? Hell, no.... I got a watch that's a peach though.” The man held out a gold watch, looking suspiciously at Chrisfield all the while through half-closed eyes.