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 Muller are amusing themselves.
From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans.
Muller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says
"Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?"
"There won't be any peace-time," says Albert bluntly.
"Well, but if–––" persists Muller, "what would you do?"
"Clear out of this!" growls Kropp.
"Of course.
And then what?"
"Get drunk," says Albert.
"Don't talk rot, I mean seriously—"
"So do I," says Kropp, "what else should 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–––"
He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round.
"My old woman!"
Then he puts it back and swears:
"Damned lousy war–––"
"It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children."
"True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat."
We laugh.
"They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere."
Muller is insatiable and gives himself no peace.
He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream.
"Haie, what would you do if it was peacetime?"
"Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.
"How does it come about exactly?"
"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Muller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again.
It is too much for Haie.
He shakes his freckled head:
"You mean when the war's over?"
"Exactly.
You've said it."
"Well, there'd be women of course, eh?"— 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 featherbed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week."
Everyone is silent.
The picture is too good.
Our flesh creeps.
At last Muller 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."
"Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say.