They give us a thin soup which we spoon down greedily and scornfully, because we are accustomed to better times but are hungry all the same.
"Now for home, Albert," I say.
"Let's hope so," he replies,
"I only wish I knew what I've got."
The pain increases.
The bandages burn like fire.
We drink and drink, one glass of water after another.
"How far above the knee am I hit?" asks Kropp.
"At least four inches, Albert," I answer.
Actually it is perhaps one.
"I've made up my mind," he says after a while, "if they take off my leg, I'll put an end to it.
I won't go through life as a cripple."
So we lie there with our thoughts and wait.
In the evening we are hauled on to the chopping-block.
I am frightened and think quickly what I ought to do; for everyone knows that the surgeons in the dressing stations amputate on the slightest provocation.
Under the great business that is much simpler than complicated patching.
I think of Kemmerich.
Whatever happens I will not let them chloroform me, even if I have to crack a couple of their skulls.
It is all right.
The surgeon pokes around in the wound and a blackness comes before my eyes.
"Don't carry on so," he says gruffly, and hacks away.
The instruments gleam in the bright light like marvelous animals.
The pain is insufferable.
Two orderlies hold my arms fast, but I break loose with one of them and try to crash into the surgeon's spectacles just as he notices and springs back.
"Chloroform the scoundrel," he roars madly.
Then I become quiet.
"Pardon me, Herr Doctor, I will keep still but do not chloroform me."
"Well now," he cackles and takes up his instrument again.
He is a fair fellow, not more than thirty years old, with scars and disgusting gold spectacles.
Now I see that he is tormenting me, he is merely raking about in the wound and looking up surreptitiously at me over his glasses.
My hands squeeze around the grips, I'll kick the bucket before he will get a squeak out of me.
He has fished out a piece of shell and tosses it to me.
Apparently he is pleased at my self-control, for he now sets my leg carefully in splints and says:
"To-morrow you'll be off home."
Then I am put in plaster.
When I am back again with Kropp I tell him that apparently a hospital train comes in tomorrow morning.
"We must work the army medical sergeant-major so that we can keep together, Albert."
I manage to slip the sergeant-major two of my cigars with belly-bands, and then tip the word to him.
He smells the cigars and says:
"Have you got any more of them?"
"Another good handful," I say, "and my comrade," I point to Kropp, "he has some as well.
We might possibly be glad to hand them to you out of the window of the hospital train in the morning."
He understands, of course, smells them once again and says:
"Done."
We cannot get a minute's sleep all night.
Seven fellows died in our ward.
One of them sings hymns in a high cracked tenor before he begins to gurgle.
Another has crept out of his bed to the window.
He lies in front of it as though he wants to look out for the last time.
Our stretchers stand on the platform.