I wondered how my sleeping Boche was doing — the one in the woods whose crapping friend had been skewered by the dragoons.
Was he dead?… Imprisoned?… Hospitalized?
I still had the shakes when I noticed a Boche snoozing on my shoulder.
Had he pulled the same stunt as me? Was he just out to save his skin, and fuck all this slaughter that didn’t concern him?
The possibility made him seem like he might be a decent guy, but I didn’t know for sure.
And then a spiked helmet stumbled by, without seeing us.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out what he was doing here, away from the others.
He’d come to take a shit on the sacred soil of France, the “eldest daughter of the Church”.
Did he void all his fear out of his guts? Either way, the filthy bugger never got around to wiping his ass.
The dragoons ran him right through.
Some relief, huh?