“The French? They’ve put every insult on us. Make us eat dirt. One day we’ll go back, and wring their necks—like this!”
He put his big hands together, and gave them a convulsive twist while he made a noise in his throat like a man choking.
“I thought you’d had enough of war,” said Bertram.
“Not against the French. I’d march again to-morrow to make them feel the German boot in their backsides.”
“Then it would happen all over again,” said Bertram. “The lousy trenches, the gun-fire, the massacre of men.”
“With a difference,” said the man, in a low voice, as though hiding, or half-revealing a secret thought.
“What kind of difference?”
“The French won’t have the English on their side next time. Nicht wahr?”
Bertram swung round in his chair.
“If the Germans think that, they’re making the hell of a mistake. For the second time.”