A few hours later I was placed on an operating table. Before I was given ether I wanted to know what was up. Being assured of no amputation I passed out from the ether while counting. I awoke counting and was placed in a bed. I had some wine, smoked a cigarette and talked some. A German who fought at Stalingrad, and now in an anti-aircraft battery, came in and tried to converse. He mentioned the low level attack in which he seemed to have a lot of fun. This attack happened on August 30, 1943, the day I graduated from flight training. He had also shot down a British bomber earlier. I slept little the remainder of the night. I was in a room with the medics -- one was usually near me all night. Next morning I vomited a little. I talked continuously with those who knew English. The doctor showed me some souvenirs of Allied planes, etc. The men who first found me came in to say Hello. One officer spoke excellent English, another carried two good cameras which I examined. Later he took a few shots as I was carried to another truck. I was then told I was being moved to another hospital. I put the doctor's note in my sleeve and was carried out on a stretcher. Everyone, including the little kids looked on, and me with only the top of my electrically heated flying suit on. Well . . . I wasn't in the mood to be embarrassed.