They are pleasant, but often rather unskilled.
They frequently give us pain when re-making our beds, and then are so frightened that they hurt us still more.
The nuns are more reliable.
They know how they must take hold of us, but we would be better pleased if they were somewhat more cheerful.
A few of them have real spirit, they are superb.
There is no one but would do anything for Sister Libertine, this marvelous sister, who spreads good cheer through the whole wing even when she can only be seen in the distance.
And there are others like her.
We would go through fire for her.
A man cannot really complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian.
And just to think of a garrison hospital gives one the creeps.
Franz Wachter does not regain his strength.
One day he is taken away and does not come back.
Josef Hamacher knows all about it:
"We shan't see him again.
They have put him in the Dead Room."
"What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp.
"Well, Dying Room–––"
"What is that, then?"
"A little room at the corner of the building.
Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there.
There are two beds in it.
It is generally called the Dying Room."
"But what do they do that for?"
"They don't have so much work to do afterwards.
It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary.
Perhaps they do it for the sake of the others also, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy.
And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself."
"But what about him?"
Josef shrugs his shoulders.
"Usually he doesn't take much notice any more."
"Does everybody know about it then?"
"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."
In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant.
A couple of days later they take the new man away, too.
Josef makes a significant glance.
We see many come and go.
Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly.
One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through.
The next morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for when she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already.
She has to go to the mortuary.
The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us.
And then little Peter begins to get worse.
His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed.
"Where to?" he asks.
"To the bandaging ward."
He is lifted out.
But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys.
Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley.
"I'm stopping here!"
They push him back.