“Mein Gott. Ich bin gewundet. O-o-o G-o-tt.” The voice floated through the heavy stillness.
Pugh put the butt of his rifle to his shoulder. “Watch out; it’s one of their damned tricks.”
“Put down your gun, you fool. Nobody could fake a voice like that.”
While they were talking the voice once again reached them. In the stillness it seemed as if it were at their sides. “Landsmann, Landsmann, hilf mich bitte.”
“The poor fellow must be half dead. Kruger! Oh, Paul, there’s a wounded Squarehead out in front here. Talk to him, will you?”
A bleached but eager-faced Kruger came out of his burrow and commenced to talk in German to the wounded man.
“What does he say, Paul? What does he say?” A group had gathered around the scene.
“He says some of you guys shot him in the guts and that he’s pretty bad off.”
“Well, let’s go out and git him. We can’t let him lie there all day.”
“Is he all right, Kruger? I mean is he a good guy?”