I answered: "Pray, do not trouble yourself!"
But he came over to me and pulled out cotton wadding and bandages. And as he touched me with his hands I experienced a curious transformation. He ceased to be a German, a detested enemy, a man who wanted to shoot me, one of the armed bands whose presence pollutes our land. He was simply Captain Müller, my chance and already kind acquaintance.
He bandaged me skillfully and rapidly. When he had finished he smiled, and said in German: "So!"
I thanked him in French: "Merci!"
Then we sat together, once more in silence. The firing did not diminish, and sometimes the bombs burst near by, quite close to us. The earth trembled, a dark, narrow column rose up, and we were spattered with dirt, with lumps of earth, and smoke. But neither I nor the German stirred. We did not wish to show that we were afraid.
Toward evening the fire grew more intense. The German was now listening to the guns.
"That was yours; that's mine; that's a 120, that's a 75, that's a 77, that's another 75."
My arm was numb and ached severely. I said: "Will you kindly get a flask out of my pocket? I have some cognac."
We drank some brandy, both from the same bottle. First he, then I; and when we had drunk from the same bottle he blushed and raised his big, blue eyes.