He was a good-looking man, and young; only the limp and the cane explained why he wasn’t in uniform.
He carefully maneuvered himself between a few tables and hitched himself up on a barstool. “Lager, bitte,” he told the barmaid.
She drew his beer and set it in front of him. “So where are you from, mein Herr, and what brings you to our little village?”