The once proud Field Marshal, especially, looked like a terribly broken, toothless old man. His false teeth had been taken from him and as he stood in the dock, badgered unmercifully by the venomous chief judge, he kept grasping at his trousers to keep them from falling-down. “You dirty old man,” Freisler shouted at him, “why do you keep fiddling with your trousers?”
