The orderly nudges me. Taking his things with you?
I nod.
Weve got to move him right away, he continues. We need the bed. Weve already got them lying on the ground out there.
I take the things and undo Kemmerichs identity tag[63]. The orderly asks for his pay book[64]. It isnt there. I say that it is probably in the guard room, and leave. Behind me they are already bundling Franz on to a tarpaulin.
Once I get outside, the darkness and the wind are a salvation. I breathe as deeply as I can, and feel the air warmer and softer than ever before in my face. Images of girls, fields of flowers, of white clouds all pass rapidly through my mind. My feet move onwards in my boots, I am going faster, Im running. Soldiers come towards me, their words excite me, even though I cant understand what they are saying. The whole earth is suffused with power and it is streaming into me, up through the soles of my feet. The night crackles with electricity, there is a dull thundering from the front line, like some concerto for kettle drums[65]. My limbs are moving smoothly, there is strength in my joints as I pant with the effort. The night is alive, I am alive. What I feel is hunger, but a stronger hunger than just the desire to eat
Muller is waiting for me in front of the huts. I give him the flying boots. We go in and he tries them on. They are a perfect fit He digs into his kit and gives me a decent chunk of salami. And there is hot tea with rum as well.
III
We are getting reinforcements. The gaps in the ranks are filled, and the empty straw palliasses[66] in the huts are soon occupied. Some of them are old hands, but twenty-five young replacement troops straight from the recruiting depots have been assigned to our company as well. They are almost a year younger than we are. Kropp nudges me. Have you seen the kids?
I nod. We strut about, get ourselves shaved on the parade-ground, put our hands in our pockets, look at the new recruits and feel as if we have been in the army for a thousand years.
Katczinsky joins us. We wander through the stables and come across the recruits, who are just being given their gasmasks and some coffee. Kat asks one of the youngest of them, I bet you lot havent had any decent grub for a good long time, eh?
The recruit pulls a face[67]. Bread made out of turnips for breakfast, turnips for lunch and turnip cutlets with turnip salad in the evening.
Katczinsky gives an appreciative whistle[68]. Bread made from turnips? You were lucky theyre already making it out of sawdust. But what about beans? Do you fancy some?
The young soldier colours up. You dont have to take the mickey[69].
All Katczinsky says is, Bring your mess-tin.
Curious, we follow him. He leads us to a big container next to his palliasse. Sure enough, it is half full of beans with bully beef. Katczinsky stands in front of it like a general and says, Eyes bright and fingers fight![70] Thats the army motto!
We are amazed. Bloody hell, Kat, I ask, how did you come by that?
Old Ginger was glad to get it off his hands. I gave him three pieces of parachute silk for it. Well, beans taste just as good cold.
With a generous flourish he gives the young soldier a portion and tells him, Next time you turn up here with your mess-tin, youll have a cigar or some chewing tobacco in the other hand. Got it?
Then he turns to us. You lot get yours for nothing, of course.
We could not do without Katczinsky; he has a sixth sense. There are men like him everywhere, but you cant tell who they are just by looking. Every company has one or two of them. Katczinsky is the sharpest I know. I think hes a shoemaker by trade, but thats got nothing to do with it hes a master of everything. Its good to be a friend of his. Kropp and I both are, and Haie Westhus half belongs to the group as well, but he is really only an instrument, working on Kats orders whenever somethings going on that needs a strong right arm, then hes a good man to have around.
For example, we turn up one night in some completely unknown place, a miserable dump[71] where you can see at a glance that it has been stripped of everything that wasnt screwed down[72]. Were quartered in a small, dark, factory building that has only just been fitted up for use. It has beds in it, or rather, bedsteads, a couple of planks with wire-mesh between them.
Wire-mesh is hard. We havent got a blanket to cover it with, we need ours to put over us. Tarpaulin is too thin.
Kat sizes it up and says to Haie Westhus, Come on. Off they go into this completely unknown place. Half an hour later they are back with their arms full of straw. Kat has found some stables and thats where the straw comes from. We could sleep warmly now, if only we werent so damned hungry.
Kat asks a gunner who has already been in the area for a while, Is there a canteen anywhere round here?
He laughs. Not a chance. Theres nothing. You wont find a crust of bread round here.
Arent there any locals left, then?
He spits. Oh yes, there are one or two. But they just hang around every field kitchen they see and scrounge what they can. Thats pretty bad. In that case well just have to tighten our belts and wait until tomorrow when the rations come up.
Then I see Kat putting his cap on. Where are you off to, Kat? Just for a sniff around. He slopes out.
The gunner grins sarcastically. Sniff away. Mind you dont strain yourself picking things up.
We lie down, disappointed, and wonder whether to break into our iron rations[73] or not. But we dont want to risk being left without. So we try to get a bit of shut-eye instead.
Kropp breaks a cigarette in two and gives me half. Tjaden describes his local speciality, broad beans cooked with bacon. He is scathing about people who try to cook it without the right chopped herbs. But the main thing is that the ingredients have to be cooked together the potatoes, beans and bacon must not, for Gods sake[74], be cooked separately. Somebody grumbles that he will chop Tjaden into the right herbs if he doesnt shut up at once. And then it is quiet in the big room. Only a couple of candles flicker in the necks of empty bottles, and the gunner spits from time to time.
We are already dozing a bit when the door opens and Kat appears. I think I am dreaming: he is carrying two loaves under his arm, and a blood-stained sandbag full of horsemeat in his hand.
The gunners pipe drops out of his mouth. He feels the bread. Straight up, its real bread, and still warm.
Kat doesnt say another thing. He has the bread and that is it; nothing else is of any importance. Im quite sure that if he were dropped in the desert he would get a meal of dates, roast meat and wine together within the hour.
He gives Haie the brief command, Chop some wood.
From under his coat he brings out a frying-pan, then he takes a handful of salt and a chunk of fat from a pocket he has thought of everything. Haie gets a fire going on the floor. Its crackling can be heard all through the empty factory. We scramble out of bed.
The gunner isnt sure what to do. He wonders whether or not to congratulate Kat, so that maybe he will get a share too. But Katczinsky doesnt even notice him he might as well be invisible. So he wanders off, swearing.
Kat has the knack of cooking horsemeat so that it is really tender. You mustnt put it straight into the pan or it will be too tough. It has to be parboiled in a little water beforehand. We sit around in a circle with our knives, and fill our bellies.
Thats Kat. If there were some place where something edible could be found only in one particular hour in the year, then he would turn up precisely during that hour as if led there by some kind of inspiration. Hed put on his cap, go out, make a bee-line for it, and find it.
He can find anything camp stoves and firewood when it is cold, hay and straw, tables, chairs but above all he can find food. No one understands how he does it, and its as if he conjures it out of thin air. His masterpiece was four cans of lobster. Mind you[75], we would really have preferred dripping[76] instead.
Weve sprawled out on the sunny side of the camp. It smells of tar, summertime and sweaty feet.
Kat is sitting next to me, because he enjoys a chat. We had an hour of saluting practice this afternoon because Tjaden gave a major a sloppy salute[77]. Kat cant get over this. Watch out, lads, he says, well lose the war because we are too good at saluting.
Weve sprawled out on the sunny side of the camp. It smells of tar, summertime and sweaty feet.
Kat is sitting next to me, because he enjoys a chat. We had an hour of saluting practice this afternoon because Tjaden gave a major a sloppy salute[77]. Kat cant get over this. Watch out, lads, he says, well lose the war because we are too good at saluting.
Kropp pads across to us barefoot, with his trousers rolled up. He has washed his socks and lays them out on the grass to dry. Kat gazes at the sky, lets off a really loud one, and says dreamily by way of commentary, Every little bean, my boys, makes you make a little noise.
He and Kropp start to argue. At the same time they manage to bet a bottle of beer on the outcome of a dogfight that is going on between a couple of planes above us.
Kat will not budge from a point of view that he, old soldier that he is, sums up with a little rhyme: Equal rations, equal pay, wars forgotten in a day
Kropp, on the other hand, is more philosophical. He reckons that all declarations of war ought to be made into a kind of festival, with entrance tickets and music, like they have at bullfights. Then the ministers and generals of the two countries would have to come into the ring, wearing boxing shorts, and armed with rubber truncheons, and have a go at each other. Whoever is left on his feet, his country is declared the winner. That would be simpler and fairer than things are out here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.
The idea appeals to us. Then the conversation moves on to drill.
An image comes into my head. Bright midday sunshine on the parade-ground at Klosterberg barracks. The heat is hanging there and the place is quiet. The barracks seem dead. Everything is asleep. All you can hear is the drummers practising they have set things up somewhere and are practising without much skill, monotonously, mindlessly. What a trio: midday heat, the parade-ground and drummers practising.