I have a shooting licence."
Then of course, we all understand.
Whoever has a shooting license can do just whatever he pleases.
"Yes," he explains, "I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions.
Ever since then I've had a grand time.
No one dares to annoy me.
And nobody does anything to me."
"I reported myself because the shot amused me.
If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another."
We are overjoyed.
With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything.
Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away.
The bandages are stuck fast.
We bellow like steers.
There are eight men in our room.
Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;—a severe lung wound.
Franz Wachter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn't look too bad at first.
But the third night he calls out to us, telling us to ring, he thinks he has a haemorrhage.
I ring loudly.
The night sister does not come.
We have been making rather heavy demands on her during the night, because we have all been freshly bandaged, and so have a good deal of pain.
One wants his leg placed so, another so, a third wants water, a fourth wants her to shake his pillow;—in the end the buxom old body grumbled bad-temperedly and slammed the doors.
Now no doubt she thinks it is something of the same sort and so she is not coming.
We wait.
Then Franz says:
"Ring again."
I do so.
Still she does not put in an appearance.
In our wing there is only one night sister, perhaps she has something to do in one of the other rooms.
"Franz, are you quite sure you are bleeding?" I ask.
"Otherwise we shall be getting cursed again."
"The bandage is wet.
Can't anybody make a light?"
That cannot be done either. The switch is by the door and none of us can stand up.
I hold my thumb against the button of the bell till it becomes numb.
Perhaps the sister has fallen asleep.
They certainly have a great deal to do and are all overworked day after day.
And added to that is the everlasting praying.
"Should we smash a bottle?" asks Josef Hamacher of the shooting licence.
"She wouldn't hear that any more than the bell."
At last the door opens.
The old lady appears, mumbling.
When she perceives Franz's trouble she begins to bustle, and says:
"Why did not someone say I was wanted?"
"We did ring.
And none of us here can walk."
He has been bleeding badly and she binds him up.
In the morning we look at his face, it has become sharp and yellow, whereas the evening before he looked almost healthy.
Now a sister comes oftener.
Sometimes there are red-cross voluntary aid sisters.