“Hier Ruht Im Gott — Ein Deutscher Fliegende Offizier T. v. H. 30 Yahre Alt.”
“You are sorry for him, are you not, my good Kühler?” the nun asked mildly as the Bavarian scrambled to his solitary foot, and stood supporting himself against the wall.
“Sorry, my Sister?” He spoke in thick Teutonic French, and looked at her under his lowering black brows as he reached his crutches out of the corner and tucked them under his arms. “Why should I be sorry? He’s dead—and so an end of him. Total kaput for another officer!” He saluted the Sister and stumped out.