“No; as yet merely under espionage. He was valuable in rather a unique way in the hospitals yesterday.”
“Bring him at once.”
Kohlvihr sent an order for his troops to rest and have a bite in the trenches.
The sorry Doltmir stepped forward again:
“Would it not be well to bring in our wounded from the field, sir?”
“We will have the field presently,” said Kohlvihr. “The sun is not hot. The lines already have seen too much of their blood.”
Big Belt remembered that. Moments were intense again when Poltneck was brought in—a tall, angular, sandy-faced chap, with a wide mouth and glistening teeth, a smile that quickened the pulse, somehow. Boylan thought of the passions of women for such men. His shoulders were lean and square. Yellow hair, long on top and cropped tight below the brim of his hat, dropped a lock across his forehead, as he uncovered in the bomb-proof pit. He had been shaven-recently. Boylan reflected that he belonged to the hospital corps. There was a thrill about him not to be missed.
“Poltneck—he calls himself,” Dabnitz whispered. “Poltneck perhaps, but I've seen him with the Imperial orchestra or I'm losing memory. I didn't have a good look at him before—”
Dabnitz was called by the General, who was seated with Doltmir over a small collation with wine and bread. The lieutenant was requested to arrange the inspiration for the men in the trenches.
Boylan noted how much taller the singer was than even the tall Russian officer—as the two stood together.