"One operation after another since five o'clock this morning.
You know, to-day alone there have been sixteen deaths—yours is the seventeenth.
There will probably be twenty altogether–––"
I become faint, all at once I cannot do any more.
I won't revile any more, it is senseless, I could drop down and never rise up again.
We are by Kemmerich's bed.
He is dead.
The face is still wet from the tears.
The eyes are half open and yellow like old horn buttons.
The orderly pokes me in the ribs,
"Are you taking his things with you?"
I nod.
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 pay-book.
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.
Muller 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.
THREE
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.