From the flagpole the Colors were forced into a stiff bar by the force of the wind, a wind which also scoured and broke down the drifts it had but moments before built. Dark figures were performing the evolutions of drill veiled with swirls of driven snow. He fancied he could hear the guttural snorts with which Kristland warmed up the mouthpiece of his instrument before he attempted to play the calls. "Who is here?" Ritchie snapped to attention and then relaxed as he identified the man in the door of the convalescent ward. "Ritchie Peters, Sergeant Woldemar." "Peters—ach—yah. It is your hand, is it not? What says the surgeon of it now?" "I'm on light duty 'til he gives the word." "Light duty?" Woldemar rubbed his chin. "Maybe I have now the answer for that. Light duties I have altogether too much of. Come now with me, Peters." Ritchie lost no time in pulling on his jacket and cap.
