The officer winced. Brent looked fierce. He made himself go and stand beside the officer.
“Your men have not much respect for the dead, monsieur.”
The Moth in Spectacles understood French better than he spoke it. He looked almost timidly at Brent.
“It is habit, monsieur. They are awkward brutes.”
He spoke to one of the men.
“Be careful, Saunders; that Englishman was alive once.”
“B——y nice job he left us, anyhow,” said the man, with sulky insolence.
The disinterment was soon completed. Brent saw his own identity disc taken out of the grave and handed to the officer, and a sudden curiosity moved him. He edged close and looked over the little officer’s shoulder at the red circle lying in his palm. The Tommy had cleaned the disc by spitting upon it and rubbing it on his breeches.
597641 Pte. Brent, P.
2—9——Fusiliers.