"I know," said the young man. "I was brought up there!"

We were surrounded by smiling faces. This officer who could speak
English was evidently regarded as a bit of a wag by his comrades. I
seized the opportunity to give them in German a humorous description of
my simplicity in explaining to a man brought up in the United States
that all Americans were not the caricatures depicted in the European
comic press.

There was a roar of laughter from the room.

"Ach, dieser Schmalz!" guffawed the Major, beating his thigh in ecstasy.
"Kolossal!" echoed one of the dug-outs. The lame man smiled wanly and
said it was "incredible how humorous Schmalz could be."

I had hoped that the conversation might now be carried on again in
German. Nothing of the kind. The room leant back in its chairs, as if
expecting the fun to go on.

It did.

"You get your clothes in London," the young officer said.

He was a trimly built young man, very pale from recent illness, with
flaxen hair and a bright, bold blue eye--the eye of a fighter. His left
sleeve was empty and was fastened across his tunic, in a button-hole of
which was twisted the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross.

"Generally," I answered shortly, "when I go to England. Clothes are
cheaper in London."