“The men are very tired, Poltneck,” Dabnitz began. “Much has been required of them, and much is still required. We want you to help us.”
“Yes?”
Poltneck had been looking about, interested as a kitten in a strange house. He regarded Kohlvihr and the rest, the trace of a smile around his mouth. The smile was still there as he turned quickly to Dabnitz with the single questioning word, not contemptuous in itself, but Boylan imagined it morally so. The voice furnished a second and very real thrill.
“We thought you would sing for your fellow soldiers. You are from the peasantry, I am told?”
“Yes, from the people.”
“We thought you would understand,” Dabnitz added. “There is an operatic tenor in the command—one Chautonville. We might have sent for him, but our thought was to reach the soldiers directly. It is a great honor.”
“Is it? How and where do you want me to sing?”
“An advance is to be ordered immediately. We will send an escort with you along the trenches—just before the order is given. I heard you singing yesterday. I am sure the men will answer with zeal.”
Poltneck seemed to wilt. Boylan was caught with the others thinking it was the mention of the trenches that frightened this hospital soldier. Yet the smile had not changed when Boylan's eye roved to that. It was not more contemptuous, nor less; but something about it was unsteadying. Dabnitz already had used many more words than he expected.
“I am not used to crowds,” Poltneck objected weakly. “I am just a simple man. Already I am without voice. I beg of you to send for Chautonville of the opera.”