“How the hell do I know? He sounds all right.”
“Kruger.” Pugh insinuated himself closer. “Kruger, let’s you and me go git him? Huh?”
And Jack Pugh, from Meridian, Mississippi, Jack Pugh, the gambler, who could make a pair of ivory cubes cakewalk and tango, was the first man to volunteer to rescue the wounded German.
The German had to be moved very carefully. Directly above the wide leather belt that he wore around the waist the gray uniform was soaked with blood. Pugh and Kruger carried him from the field and lowered him to the bottom of the ravine.
“Now what do you think of the Kaiser, you damn Squarehead?”
“Bet, by God, he wishes he’d stayed home drinkin’ beer.”
“Hell, these Dutchmen git beer right in the trenches.” The speaker passed his tongue over his dry lips.
“Shut up. Can’t you let the poor devil alone? He probably hates the Kaiser as much as the rest of us.”
The wounded German raised himself on his shoulder, gasping with pain. “Kaiser. Gottverdammt.”