He goes on: “We must take him away at once, we want the bed. Outside they are lying on the floor.”
I collect Kemmerich’s things, and untie his identification disc. The orderly asks about the paybook. I say that it is probably in the orderly-room, and go. Behind me they are already hauling Franz on to a waterproof sheet.
Outside the door I am aware of the darkness and the wind as a deliverance. I breathe as deep as I can, and feel the breeze in my face, warm and soft as never before. Thoughts of girls, of flowery meadows, of white clouds suddenly come into my head. My feet begin to move forward in my boots, I go quicker, I run. Soldiers pass by me, I hear their voices without understanding. The earth is streaming with forces which pour into me through the soles of my feet. The night crackles electrically, the front thunders like a concert of drums. My limbs move supplely, I feel my joints strong, I breathe the air deeply. The night lives, I live. I feel a hunger, greater than comes from the belly alone.
Müller stands in front of the hut waiting for me. I give him the boots. We go in and he tries them on. They fit well.
He roots among his supplies and offers me a fine piece of saveloy. With it goes hot tea and rum.
III
Reinforcements have arrived. The vacancies have been filled and the sacks of straw in the huts are already booked. Some of them are old hands, but there are twenty-five men of a later draft from the base. They are about two years younger than us. Kropp nudges me: “Seen the infants?”
I nod. We stick out our chests, shave in the open, shove our hands in our pockets, inspect the recruits and feel ourselves stone-age veterans.
Katczinsky joins us. We stroll past the horseboxes and go over to the reinforcements, who are already being issued with gas masks and coffee.
“Long time since you’ve had anything decent to eat, eh?” Kat asks one of the youngsters.
He grimaces. “For breakfast, turnip-bread—lunch, turnip-stew—supper, turnip-cutlets and turnip-salad.” Kat gives a knowing whistle.
“Bread made of turnips? You’ve been in luck, it’s nothing new for it to be made of sawdust. But what do you say to haricot beans? Have some?”
The youngster turns red: “You can’t kid me.”
Katczinsky merely says: “Fetch your mess-tin.”
We follow curiously. He takes us to a tub beside his straw sack. Sure enough it is half full of beef and beans. Katczinsky plants himself in front of it like a general and says:
“Sharp eyes and light fingers! That’s what the Prussians say.”
We are surprised. “Great guts, Kat, how did you come by that?” I ask him.
“Ginger was glad I took it. I gave him three pieces of parachute-silk for it. Cold beans taste fine, too.”
Patronizingly he gives the youngster a portion and says:
“Next time you come with your mess-tin have a cigar or a chew of tobacco in your other hand. Get me?” Then he turns to us. “You get off scot free, of course.”
We couldn’t do without Katczinsky; he has a sixth sense. There are such people everywhere but one does not appreciate it at first. Every company has one or two. Katczinsky is the smartest I know. By trade he is a cobbler, I believe, but that hasn’t anything to do with it; he understands all trades. It’s a good thing to be friends with him, as Kropp and I are, and Haie Westhus too, more or less. But Haie is rather the executive arm, operating under Kat’s orders when things come to blows. For that he has his qualifications.
For example, we land at night in some entirely unknown spot, a sorry hole, that has been eaten out to the very walls. We are quartered in a small dark factory adapted to the purpose. There are beds in it, or rather bunks—a couple of wooden beams over which wire netting is stretched.
Wire netting is hard. And there’s nothing to put on it. Our waterproof sheets are too thin. We use our blankets to cover ourselves.
Kat looks at the place and then says to Haie Westhus: “Come with me.” They go off to explore. Half an hour later they are back again with arms full of straw. Kat has found a horsebox with straw in it. Now we might sleep if we weren’t so terribly hungry.
Kropp asks an artilleryman who has been some time in this neighbourhood: “Is there a canteen anywhere abouts?”
“Is there a what?” he laughs. “There’s nothing to be had here. You won’t find so much as a crust of bread here.”
“Aren’t there any inhabitants here at all then?”
He spits. “Yes, a few. But they hang round the cookhouse and beg.”
“That’s a bad business!—Then we’ll have to pull in our belts and wait till the rations come up in the morning.”
But I see Kat has put on his cap.
“Where to, Kat?” I ask.
“Just to explore the place a bit.” He strolls off. The artilleryman grains scornfully. “Go ahead and explore. But don’t strain yourself in carrying what you find.”
Disappointed we lie down and consider whether we couldn’t have a go at the iron rations. But it’s too risky; so we try to get a wink of sleep.
Kropp divides a cigarette and hands me half. Tjaden gives an account of his national dish—broad-beans and bacon. He despises it when not flavoured with bog-myrtle, and, “for God’s sake, let it all be cooked together, not the potatoes, the beans, and the bacon separately.” Someone growls that he will pound Tjaden into bog-myrtle if he doesn’t shut up. Then all becomes quiet in the big room—only the candles flickering from the necks of a couple
