Chapter 5

21 min

Killing each separate louse is a tedious business when a man has hundreds. The little beasts are hard and the everlasting cracking with one's fingernails very soon becomes wearisome. So Tjaden has rigged up the lid of a boot-polish tin with a piece of wire over the lighted stump of a candle. The lice are simply thrown into this little pan. Crack! and they're done for.

Killing lice one by one is tedious when a man has hundreds of them. The little beasts are hard, and cracking them with your fingernails soon gets tiring. So Tjaden has used a piece of wire to rig up a boot-polish tin lid over a burning candle stub. The lice are simply thrown into this little pan. Crack! And they're done for.

We sit around with our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke.

We sit around with our shirts on our knees, naked in the warm air, our hands busy. Haie has a particularly fine kind of louse. They have a red cross on their heads. He suggests he brought them back from the hospital at Thourhout, where they personally attended a surgeon-general. He says he plans to use the fat slowly collecting in the tin lid to polish his boots. He roars with laughter at his own joke for half an hour.

But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair.

But he isn't having much success today because we're too preoccupied with something else.

The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose.

The rumor has come true. Himmelstoss has arrived. He showed up yesterday, and we’ve already heard that familiar voice. It seems he went too far with a couple of young recruits on the plowed field back home. Without his knowing it, the local magistrate’s son was watching. That finished him.

He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?"

He is in for some surprises here. Tjaden has spent hours thinking about what to say to him. Haie looks thoughtfully at his huge hands and winks at me. The beating was the high point of his life. He tells me he often dreams about it. Kropp and Müller are entertaining themselves. Kropp has gotten hold of a mess tin full of beans from somewhere, probably the pioneer cookhouse. Müller peers hungrily into the tin but restrains himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peacetime again?"

"There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly.

"There won't be any civilian life," Albert says bluntly.

"Well, but if—" persists Müller, "what would you do?"

"Well, but if..." Müller presses on, "what would you do?"

"Clear out of this!" growls Kropp.

"Get out of here!" growls Kropp.

"Of course. And then what?"

"Get drunk," says Albert.

"Don't talk rot, I mean seriously——"

"Don't talk nonsense. I mean it, seriously..."

"So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?"

"So do I," says Kropp. "What else can a man do?"

Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert——"

Kat becomes interested. He takes some beans from Kropp's tin and swallows them. Then he thinks for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train home to your mother. Peacetime, man, Albert..."

He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war——"

He fumbles in his oilcloth wallet for a photograph and suddenly shows it to everyone. "My parents!" Then he puts the photo back and swears: "Damned lousy war."

"It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children."

"It's easy for you to say," I tell him. "You have a wife and children."

"True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat."

"True," he says, nodding, "and I have to make sure they have something to eat."

We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."

We laugh. "They won't run short of that, Kat. You'd find it somewhere."

Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?"

Müller can't get enough and won't let himself rest. He wakes Haie Westhus from his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it were peacetime?"

"Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?"

"I'd kick you in the backside for talking like that," I say. "How exactly does it happen?"

"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again.

"How does cow shit get on the roof?" Müller replies briefly, then turns back to Haie Westhus.

It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head:

"You mean when the war's over?"

"You mean when the war is over?"

"Exactly. You've said it."

"Exactly. You said it."

"Well, there'd be women of course, eh?"—Haie licks his lips.

"Well, there'd be women, of course, right?" Haie licks his lips.

"Sure."

"By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week."

"Hell yes," says Haie, his face softening. "Then I'd grab a good, curvy woman, a real kitchen girl with plenty to hold on to, you know. I'd jump straight into bed with her. Just think, boys, a real feather bed with a spring mattress. I wouldn't put my trousers on again for a week."

Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says:

Everyone falls silent. The picture is too vivid. Our skin crawls. At last, Müller pulls himself together and says:

"And then what?"

A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time."

A pause. Then Haie explains awkwardly: "If I were a noncommissioned officer, I'd stay with the Prussians and finish my service."

"Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say.

"Haie, you must be crazy!" I say.

"Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it."

"Have you ever dug peat?" he replies in a friendly tone. "You try it."

Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin.

Then he pulls a spoon from the top of his boot and reaches into Kropp's mess tin.

"It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture.

"It can't be worse than digging trenches," I say tentatively.

Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."

Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer, though. And there's no way out of it either."

"But, man, surely it's better at home."

"But, man, it must be better at home."

"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream.

"Some ways," he says, then slips into a daydream with his mouth open.

You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes.

You can see what he is thinking about. The shabby little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty work clothes.

"In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub."

"In the army during peacetime, you have nothing to worry about," he goes on. "You get your food every day, or you raise hell. You have a bed and clean underwear every week, like a perfect gentleman. You do your duty as a noncommissioned officer, and you have a good suit of clothes. In the evening, you're a free man and go off to the pub."

Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it.

Haie is completely set on his idea. He loves it.

"And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day."

"And when your twelve years are over, you get your pension and become a village police officer. You can walk around all day."

He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby."

He's already eager for it. "Just think how people would treat you. A shot here, a pint there. Everybody wants to be on good terms with a cop."

"You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat.

"You'll never be a noncommissioned officer, though, Haie," Kat interrupts.

Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house——

Haie looks at him sadly and says nothing. He is still thinking of the clear autumn evenings, the Sundays in the heather, and the village bells. He remembers the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, and the carefree evenings in the ale-house.

He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask."

He can't give up all these dreams so suddenly. He just growls: "You ask such silly questions."

He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic.

He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons his tunic.

"What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp.

Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me."

Tjaden is thinking about only one thing. "Make sure Himmelstoss doesn't get past me."

Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils."

Apparently, what he wants most is to put him in a cage and beat him with a club every morning. He says warmly to Kropp: "If I were you, I'd make sure I became a lieutenant. Then you could work him until the water in his backside boils."

"And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions.

"And you, Detering?" Müller asks, like an interrogator. With all his questions, he’s a born schoolteacher.

Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting."

Detering doesn't say much. But he speaks about this. He looks at the sky and says just one sentence: "I would keep right on harvesting."

Then he gets up and walks off.

Then he gets up and walks away.

He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already taken away two of his horses. Every day he reads the papers that come, to see whether it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. They haven't brought the hay in yet.

He is worried. His wife has to take care of the farm. Two of his horses have already been taken away. Every day he reads the newspapers to see if it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. The hay has not been brought in yet.

At this moment Himmelstoss appears. He comes straight up to our group. Tjaden's face turns red. He stretches his length on the grass and shuts his eyes in embarrassment.

Just then, Himmelstoss appears. He walks straight up to our group. Tjaden’s face turns red. He stretches out on the grass and closes his eyes in embarrassment.

Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest.

Himmelstoss hesitates a little and slows his pace. Then he marches up to us. No one moves to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest.

He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?"

He keeps standing in front of us, waiting. When no one says anything, he asks, "Well?"

A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing himself to one instead of to all of us hopes to get some response. Kropp is nearest, so he favours him.

A couple of seconds pass. Apparently, Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. More than anything, he'd like to make us all run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries anyway, hoping for a response by addressing one of us instead of the whole group. Kropp is closest, so he gets the honor.

"Well, you here too?"

"Well, are you here too?"

But Albert's no friend of his. "A bit longer than you, I fancy," he retorts.

But Albert is no friend of his. "A little longer than you, I think," he shoots back.

The red moustache twitches: "You don't recognize me any more, what?"

The red mustache twitches: "You don't recognize me anymore, do you?"

Tjaden now opens his eyes. "I do though."

Tjaden opens his eyes. "I do, though."

Himmelstoss turns to him: "Tjaden, isn't it?"

Himmelstoss turns to him: "Tjaden, right?"

Tjaden lifts his head. "And do you know what you are?"

Himmelstoss is disconcerted. "Since when have we become so familiar? I don't remember that we ever slept in the gutter together?"

Himmelstoss is thrown off. "Since when are we on such familiar terms? I don't remember us ever sleeping in the gutter together."

He has no idea what to make of the situation. He didn't expect this open hostility. But he is on his guard: someone has already dinned some rot into him about getting a shot in the back.

He has no idea what to make of the situation. He didn't expect such open hostility. But he is on his guard. Someone has already filled his head with nonsense about being shot in the back.

The question about the gutter makes Tjaden so mad that he becomes almost witty: "No, you slept there by yourself."

The question about the gutter makes Tjaden so angry that he almost makes a witty comeback: "No, you slept there by yourself."

Himmelstoss begins to boil. But Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time."

Himmelstoss starts to get angry. But Tjaden speaks before he can. He has to get his insult out: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? You're a dirty dog. I've wanted to tell you that for a long time."

The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound!

Months of satisfaction shine in his dull, piglike eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound!

Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you."

Himmelstoss starts shouting too. "What's that, you muck-raker, you filthy peat thief? Stand up straight. Put your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you."

Tjaden winks solemnly. "You take a run and jump at yourself, Himmelstoss."

Tjaden winks solemnly. "Go jump in a lake, Himmelstoss."

Himmelstoss is a raging book of army regulations. The Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, I command you, as your superior officer: Stand up!"

Himmelstoss is like an army rule book in a rage. Even the Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, as your superior officer, I order you to stand up!"

"Anything else you would like?" asks Tjaden.

"Anything else you want?" asks Tjaden.

"Will you obey my order or not?"

"Will you follow my order or not?"

Tjaden replies, without knowing it, in the well-known classical phrase.

Tjaden replies with the well-known classical phrase, without realizing it.

At the same time he ventilates his backside.

At the same time, he airs out his backside.

"I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss.

"I'll have you court-martialed," Himmelstoss shouts angrily.

We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist.

We watch him disappear toward the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into laughter, bellowing like peat diggers. Haie laughs so hard that he dislocates his jaw. Suddenly, he stands there helpless, his mouth wide open. Albert has to put his jaw back in place with a blow from his fist.

Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious."

Kat is worried: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious."

"Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden.

"Sure to," I say.

"Definitely," I say.

"The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat.

"At the very least, you'll get five days in confinement," says Kat.

That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest."

That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days in jail are five days of rest."

"And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller.

"And what if they send you to the Fortress?" the thorough Müller presses.

"Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned."

"Well, for now, the war will be over for me."

Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement.

Tjaden is a cheerful person. He has no worries. He goes off with Haie and Leer so they won't find him when the excitement first breaks out.

* *

Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again.

Müller isn't finished yet. He goes at Kropp again.

"Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?"

"Albert, if you were really home now, what would you do?"

Kropp is contented now and more accommodating:

Kropp is happy now and more willing to cooperate:

"How many of us were there in the class exactly?"

"How many of us were in the class, exactly?"

We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates.

We count them up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four are wounded, and one is in a psychiatric hospital. That makes twelve privates.

"Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?"

"Three of them are lieutenants," Müller says. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek boss them around?"

We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter.

We don't think so. Besides, we wouldn't let anyone push us around.

"What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter.

"What do you mean by the three-part theme in 'William Tell'?" Kropp asks, remembering. He roars with laughter.

"What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly.

"What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" Müller asks suddenly and seriously.

"How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently.

"How many children did Charles the Bald have?" I interrupt gently.

"You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller.

"You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," Müller croaks.

"When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know.

"When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp asks.

"You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus——" I wink.

"You don't have a mind for studying, Kropp. Sit down. Three minus..." I wink.

"What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez.

"Which government positions did Lycurgus think were most important to the state?" Müller asks, pretending to take off his pince-nez.

"Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and——'" I submit.

"Is it 'We Germans fear God and no one else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and...'" I ask.

"How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller.

"How many people live in Melbourne?" asks Müller.

"How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?" I ask Albert hotly.

"How do you expect to get ahead in life if you don't know that?" I ask Albert angrily.

Which he caps with: "What is meant by Cohesion?"

He follows that up with: "What does cohesion mean?"

We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood—nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs.

We remember very little of all that rubbish. Anyway, none of it has ever been the slightest use to us. At school, nobody taught us how to light a cigarette in a rainstorm or make a fire with wet wood. Nobody taught us that it’s best to stick a bayonet in the belly. A bayonet doesn’t get jammed there, as it does in the ribs.

Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again."

Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the point? We'll have to go back and sit on the benches again."

I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam."

I think that is impossible. "We might take a special exam."

"That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil."

"That takes preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like crazy."

"It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you."

"It's a bit better. But everything they teach you is still nonsense."

Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?"

Kropp backs me up: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously after he's been out here?"

"Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself.

"Still, you have to have some kind of job," Müller insists, as if he were Kantorek himself.

Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?"—he makes a gesture toward the front.

Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised to see him being so neat. But he is just lost in thought. He puts the knife away and goes on: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them before. Himmelstoss too. But we never had jobs. How will we ever get used to a job after all this, here?" He gestures toward the front.

"We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea.

"We'll need enough money to live on, and then we can live by ourselves in the woods," I say. But I immediately feel ashamed of the absurd idea.

"But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled.

"But what will really happen when we go back?" Müller wonders. Even he is worried.

Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out."

Kropp shrugs. "I don't know. Let's get back first. Then we'll find out."

We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask.

We are all completely at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask.

"I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back."

"I don't want to do anything," Kropp says tiredly. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back."

"When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing—something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on—it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything—I don't see anything at all, Albert."

"When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling onto my back, "the words 'peace time' make my head spin. And if peace really came, I think I would do something unimaginable. Something, you know, that would make lying here in the mud worthwhile. But I can't even imagine what that might be. All I know is that all this talk about careers, studying, salaries, and so on makes me sick. It's disgusting, and it always has been. I can't see anything. I can't see anything at all, Albert."

All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless.

Suddenly, everything seems confusing and hopeless to me.

Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs—a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock."

Kropp feels it too. "It will be pretty hard on all of us. But nobody back home seems to worry much about it. A man can't shake off two years of shells and bombs as easily as taking off a sock."

We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation.

We agree that it is the same for everyone our age, not just for us here but everywhere. It affects some more than others. It is the common fate of our generation.

Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything."

Albert puts it this way: "The war has ruined us for everything."

He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war.

He is right. We are young no longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are running away. We are running from ourselves. From our lives. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world. Then we had to shoot them to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from action, from striving, from progress. We no longer believe in those things. We believe in the war.

* *

The Orderly Room shows signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. At the head of the column trots the fat sergeant-major. It is queer that almost all pay-sergeant-majors are fat.

The Orderly Room is showing signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. The fat sergeant-major trots at the head of the column. It is strange that almost all pay-sergeant-majors are fat.

Himmelstoss follows him, thirsting for vengeance. His boots gleam in the sun.

Himmelstoss follows him, eager for revenge. His boots shine in the sun.

We get up.

"Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant puffs.

"Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant asks, out of breath.

No one knows, of course. Himmelstoss glowers at us wrathfully. "You know very well. You won't say, that's the fact of the matter. Out with it!"

Of course, no one knows. Himmelstoss glares at us angrily. "You know perfectly well. You just won't say. That's the truth. Tell me!"

Fatty looks round enquiringly; but Tjaden is not to be seen. He tries another way.

Fatty looks around, searching, but Tjaden is nowhere in sight. He tries another way.

"Tjaden will report at the Orderly Room in ten minutes."

"Tjaden must report to the Orderly Room in ten minutes."

Then he steams off with Himmelstoss in his wake.

Then he strides off, with Himmelstoss following behind.

"I have a feeling that next time we go up wiring I'll be letting a bundle of wire fall on Himmelstoss's leg," hints Kropp.

"I have a feeling that next time we go out to put up wire, I'll drop a bundle on Himmelstoss's leg," Kropp hints.

"We'll have quite a lot of jokes with him," laughs Müller.—

"We'll have a lot of laughs with him," Müller says, laughing.

That is our sole ambition: to knock the conceit out of a postman.—

That is our only ambition: to knock the arrogance out of a postman.

I go into the hut and put Tjaden wise. He disappears.

I go into the hut and let Tjaden know. He disappears.

Then we change our possy and lie down again to play cards. We know how to do that: to play cards, to swear, and to fight. Not much for twenty years;—and yet too much for twenty years.

Then we change positions and lie down again to play cards. We know how to do that: play cards, swear, and fight. Not much for twenty years, and yet too much for twenty years.

Half an hour later Himmelstoss is back again. Nobody pays any attention to him. He asks for Tjaden. We shrug our shoulders.

Half an hour later, Himmelstoss comes back. Nobody pays any attention to him. He asks for Tjaden. We shrug.

"Then you'd better find him," he persists. "Haven't you been to look for him?"

"Then you'd better find him," he insists. "Haven't you looked for him?"

Kropp lies back in the grass and says: "Have you ever been out here before?"

Kropp lies back in the grass and asks, "Have you ever been out here before?"

"That's none of your business," retorts Himmelstoss. "I expect an answer."

"That's none of your business," Himmelstoss snaps. "I expect an answer."

"Very good," says Kropp, getting up. "See up there where those little white clouds are. Those are anti-aircraft. We were over there yesterday. Five dead and eight wounded. It was a lot of fun. Next time, when you go up with us, before they die the fellows will come up to you, click their heels, and ask stiffly: 'Please may I go? Please may I hop it? We've been waiting here a long time for someone like you.'"

"Very good," says Kropp, getting up. "See those little white clouds up there? That's anti-aircraft fire. We were over there yesterday. Five dead and eight wounded. It was a lot of fun. Next time you go up with us, the guys will come up to you before they die. They'll click their heels and ask stiffly: 'Please may I go? Please may I leave? We've been waiting here a long time for someone like you.'"

He sits down again and Himmelstoss disappears like a comet.

He sits down again, and Himmelstoss disappears like a comet.

"Three days C.B.," Kat conjectures.

"Three days confined to barracks," Kat guesses.

"Next time I'll let fly," I say to Albert.

"Next time I'll let loose," I say to Albert.

But that is the end. The case comes up for trial in the evening. In the Orderly Room sits our Lieutenant, Bertink, and calls us in one after another.

But that is the end. The case comes to trial that evening. Our Lieutenant, Bertink, sits in the Orderly Room and calls us in one by one.

I have to appear as a witness and explain the reason of Tjaden's insubordination.

I have to testify and explain why Tjaden disobeyed orders.

The story of the bed-wetting makes an impression. Himmelstoss is recalled and I repeat my statement.

The story about the bed-wetting makes an impression. Himmelstoss is called back, and I repeat my statement.

"Is that right?" Bertink asks Himmelstoss.

He tries to evade the question, but in the end has to confess, for Kropp tells the same story.

He tries to dodge the question, but in the end he has to admit the truth because Kropp tells the same story.

"Why didn't someone report the matter, then?" asks Bertink.

"Then why didn't someone report it?" asks Bertink.

We are silent: he must know himself how much use it is reporting such things in the army. It isn't usual to make complaints in the army. He understands it all right though, and lectures Himmelstoss, making it plain to him that the front isn't a parade-ground. Then comes Tjaden's turn, who gets a long sermon and three days open arrest. He gives Kropp a wink and one day's open arrest. "It can't be helped," he says to him regretfully. He is a decent fellow.

We stay silent. He must know how much good reporting such things does in the army. Soldiers don't usually complain. But he understands well enough. He lectures Himmelstoss and makes it clear that the front isn't a parade ground. Then it's Tjaden's turn. He gets a long lecture and three days of open arrest. The officer winks at Kropp and gives him one day of open arrest. "It can't be helped," he says to Kropp regretfully. He's a decent fellow.

Open arrest is quite pleasant. The clink was once a fowl-house; there we can visit the prisoners, we know how to manage it. Close arrest would have meant the cellar.

Open arrest is quite pleasant. The jail used to be a chicken coop. We can visit the prisoners there. We know how to arrange it. Close arrest would have meant being locked in the cellar.

They used to tie us to a tree, but that is forbidden now. In many ways we are treated quite like men.

They used to tie us to a tree, but that is not allowed anymore. In many ways, we are treated almost like men.

An hour after Tjaden and Kropp are settled in behind their wire-netting we make our way in to them. Tjaden greets us crowing. Then we play skat far into the night. Tjaden wins of course, the lucky wretch.

An hour after Tjaden and Kropp settle in behind their wire netting, we go in to see them. Tjaden greets us with a crow of delight. Then we play skat late into the night. Tjaden wins, of course, the lucky bastard.

* *

When we break up Kat says to me: "What do you say to some roast goose?"

When we leave, Kat says to me: "How about some roast goose?"

"Not bad," I agree.

We climb up on a munition-waggon. The ride costs us two cigarettes. Kat has marked the spot exactly. The shed belongs to a regimental headquarters. I agree to get the goose and receive my instructions. The out-house is behind the wall and the door shuts with just a peg.

We climb onto an ammunition wagon. The ride costs us two cigarettes. Kat has pinpointed the spot. The shed belongs to a regimental headquarters. I agree to get the goose and receive my instructions. The shed is behind the wall, and its door is held shut by a peg.

Kat hoists me up. I rest my foot in his hands and climb over the wall. Kat keeps watch below.

Kat lifts me up. I put my foot in his hands and climb over the wall. Kat keeps watch below.

I wait a few moments to accustom my eyes to the darkness. Then I recognize the shed. Softly I steal across, lift the peg, pull it out and open the door.

I wait a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then I recognize the shed. I quietly slip across, lift the peg, pull it out, and open the door.

I distinguish two white patches. Two geese, that's bad: if I grab one the other will cackle. Well, both of them—if I'm quick, it can be done.

I see two white patches. Two geese. That's bad. If I grab one, the other will honk. Well, I'll grab both. If I'm quick, I can do it.

I make a jump. I catch hold of one and the next instant the second. Like a madman I bash their heads against the wall to stun them. But I haven't quite enough weight. The beasts cackle and strike out with their feet and wings. I fight desperately, but Lord! what a kick a goose has! They struggle and I stagger about. In the dark these white patches are terrifying. My arms have grown wings and I'm almost afraid of going up into the sky, as though I held a couple of captive balloons in my fists.

I jump and grab one goose, then the other. Like a madman, I bash their heads against the wall to stun them. But I don't have quite enough weight. The beasts cackle and lash out with their feet and wings. I fight desperately, but Lord! What a kick a goose has! The geese struggle, and I stagger around. In the dark, these white shapes are terrifying. My arms have grown wings, and I'm almost afraid I'll fly into the sky. It's as if I were holding a pair of captive balloons in my fists.

Then the row begins; one of them gets his breath and goes off like an alarm clock. Before I can do anything, something comes in from outside; I feel a blow, lie outstretched on the floor, and hear awful growls. A dog. I steal a glance to the side, he makes a snap at my throat. I lie still and tuck my chin into my collar.

Then the commotion starts. One of them catches his breath and goes off like an alarm clock. Before I can do anything, something comes in from outside. I feel a blow and end up stretched out on the floor. I hear awful growls. A dog. I glance to the side, and he snaps at my throat. I lie still and tuck my chin into my collar.

It's a bull dog. After an eternity he withdraws his head and sits down beside me. But if I make the least movement he growls. I consider. The only thing to do is to get hold of my small revolver, and that too before anyone arrives. Inch by inch I move my hand toward it.

It's a bulldog. After what feels like forever, he pulls his head back and sits down beside me. But if I move even a little, he growls. I think it over. My only option is to get my small revolver before anyone arrives. Inch by inch, I move my hand toward it.

I have the feeling that it lasts an hour. The slightest movement and then an awful growl; I lie still, then try again. When at last I have the revolver my hand starts to tremble. I press it against the ground and then say over to myself: Jerk the revolver up, fire before he has a chance to grab, and then jump up.

It feels like it lasts an hour. The slightest movement brings an awful growl. I lie still, then try again. When I finally have the revolver, my hand starts to shake. I press it against the ground and tell myself: Pull the revolver up, fire before he can grab it, then jump up.

Slowly I take a deep breath and become calmer. Then I hold my breath, whip up the revolver, it cracks, the dog leaps howling to one side, I make for the door of the shed and fall head over heels over one of the damned geese.

I slowly take a deep breath and calm down. Then I hold my breath, raise the revolver, and fire. The dog leaps to one side, howling. I head for the shed door and trip head over heels over one of the damned geese.

At full speed I seize it again, and with a swing toss it over the wall and clamber up. No sooner am I on top than the dog is up again as lively as ever and springs at me. Quickly I let myself drop. Ten paces away stands Kat with the goose under his arm. As soon as he sees me we run.

I grab it again as fast as I can, swing it over the wall, and climb up. As soon as I reach the top, the dog is up again, as lively as ever, and leaps at me. I quickly drop down. Ten paces away, Kat stands with the goose under his arm. As soon as he sees me, we run.

At last we can take a breather. The goose is dead, Kat saw to that in a moment. We intend to roast it, without telling anybody. I fetch a stove and wood from the hut and we crawl into a small deserted lean-to which we use for such purposes. The single window space is heavily curtained. There is a sort of hearth, an iron plate set on some bricks. We kindle a fire.

At last we can take a breather. The goose is dead. Kat killed it in a moment. We plan to roast it without telling anyone. I get a stove and some wood from the hut, and we crawl into a small, empty lean-to we use for this kind of thing. The only window is covered with a heavy curtain. There is a kind of hearth, an iron plate resting on some bricks. We light a fire.

Kat plucks and cleans the goose. We put the feathers carefully to one side. We intend to make two cushions out of them with the inscription: "Sleep soft under shell fire." The sound of the gun-fire from the front penetrates into our refuge. The glow of the fire lights up our faces, shadows dance on the wall. Sometimes a heavy crash and the hut shivers. Aeroplane bombs. Once we hear a stifled cry. A hut must have been hit.

Kat plucks and cleans the goose. We carefully set the feathers aside. We plan to make two cushions with them and write on each one: "Sleep soft under shell fire." We can hear gunfire from the front in our shelter. The fire lights up our faces, and shadows dance on the wall. Sometimes there is a heavy crash, and the hut shakes. Airplane bombs. Once, we hear a muffled cry. A hut must have been hit.

Aeroplanes drone; the tack-tack of machine guns breaks out. But no light that could be observed shows from us.

Planes drone overhead. Machine guns break out in a tack-tack. But no visible light shows from our position.

We sit opposite one another, Kat and I, two soldiers in shabby coats, cooking a goose in the middle of the night. We don't talk much, but I believe we have a more complete communion with one another than even lovers have.

Kat and I sit facing each other, two soldiers in worn-out coats, cooking a goose in the middle of the night. We don't talk much, but I believe we share a deeper connection than even lovers do.

We are two men, two minute sparks of life; outside is the night and the circle of death. We sit on the edge of it crouching in danger, the grease drips from our hands, in our hearts we are close to one another, and the hour is like the room: flecked over with the lights and shadows of our feelings cast by a quiet fire. What does he know of me or I of him? formerly we should not have had a single thought in common—now we sit with a goose between us and feel in unison, and are so intimate that we do not even speak.

We are two men, two tiny sparks of life. Outside is the night and the circle of death. We crouch at its edge, in danger, grease dripping from our hands. In our hearts, we are close. This hour is like the room, filled with the light and shadows of our feelings, cast by a quiet fire. What does he know about me, or I about him? Before, we would not have had a single thought in common. Now we sit with a goose between us, feeling the same things. We are so close that we do not even speak.

It takes a long time to roast a goose, even when it is young and fat. So we take turns. One bastes it while the other lies down and sleeps. A grand smell gradually fills the hut.

Roasting a goose takes a long time, even when it's young and fat. So we take turns. One of us bastes the goose while the other lies down and sleeps. A wonderful smell gradually fills the hut.

The noises without increase in volume, pass into my dream and yet linger in my memory. In a half sleep I watch Kat dip and raise the ladle. I love him, his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure—and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace, to me, a soldier in big boots, belt, and knapsack, taking the road that lies before him under the high heaven, quickly forgetting and seldom sorrowful, for ever pressing on under the wide night sky.

The noises outside grow louder. They enter my dream, yet I still remember them. Half asleep, I watch Kat lower and lift the ladle. I love him, his shoulders and his angular, stooping figure. At the same time, I see woods and stars behind him. A clear voice speaks words that bring me peace. I am a soldier in big boots, a belt, and a knapsack, taking the road ahead beneath the high sky. I forget quickly and am seldom sad, always pressing on beneath the wide night sky.

A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and shut heart, who marches because he is wearing big boots, and has forgotten all else but marching. Beyond the sky-line is a country with flowers, lying so still that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them—perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there?

A small soldier with a clear voice. If anyone caressed him, he would hardly understand. He wears big boots and has a closed heart. He marches because he is wearing big boots, and he has forgotten everything but marching. Beyond the horizon lies a country with flowers, so still that he would like to weep. There are things there that he has not forgotten because he never possessed them. They puzzle him, yet they are lost to him. Aren’t his twenty summers there?

Is my face wet, and where am I? Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me like home. He speaks gently, he smiles and goes back to the fire.

Is my face wet? Where am I? Kat stands before me. His huge, stooped shadow falls over me like home. He speaks gently, smiles, and goes back to the fire.

Then he says: "It's done."

"Yes, Kat."

I stir myself. In the middle of the room shines the brown goose. We take out our collapsible forks and our pocket-knives and each cuts off a leg. With it we have army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with gusto.

I get moving. The browned goose gleams in the middle of the room. We take out our folding forks and pocketknives and each cut off a leg. We eat it with army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with relish.

"How does it taste, Kat?"

"Good! And yours?"

"Good, Kat."

We are brothers and press on one another the choicest pieces. Afterwards I smoke a cigarette and Kat a cigar. There is still a lot left.

We are brothers, and we offer each other the best pieces. Afterwards, I smoke a cigarette and Kat smokes a cigar. There is still a lot left.

"How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?"

"What if we took some to Kropp and Tjaden, Kat?"

"Sure," says he.

"Sure," he says.

We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden."

We cut off a portion and wrap it carefully in newspaper. We thought of taking the rest to the hut. Kat laughs and simply says: "Tjaden."

I agree, we will have to take it all.

I agree, we'll have to take it all.

So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers.

So we go to the chicken coop to wake them. But first, we pack away the feathers.

Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:

Kropp and Tjaden think we are magicians. Then they start eating. Tjaden holds a wing with both hands, like a harmonica, and gnaws on it. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:

"May I never forget you!"

"I hope I never forget you!"

We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning—but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade.

We go to our hut. Once again, the sky is high above us, with stars and the approaching dawn. I walk beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning. But beside me walks Kat, my comrade, stooped and angular.

The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep.

At dawn, the outlines of the huts loom over us like a dark, deep sleep.