Three weeks ago, in front of Charleroi, a French sharpshooter put a bullet in him.

It passed through his left forearm, pierced one lung and lodged in the muscles of his breast, where it lies imbedded.

In a week from now he expects to rejoin his command.
To look at him you would never guess that he had so recently been wounded; his color is high and he moves with the stiff, precise alertness of the German army man.

He is still wearing the coat he wore in the fight; there are two ragged little holes in the left sleeve and a puncture in the side of it; and it is spotted with stiff, dry, brown stains.
"I don't presume to know anything about the political or commercial aspects of this war," he said over his beer mug; "but I do know this: War was forced on us by these other Powers.

They were jealous of us and they made the Austrian-Servian quarrel their quarrel.