All Quiet on the Western Front / На Западном фронте без перемен. Книга для чтения на английском языке

II

I find it strange to think that at home in a drawer there is the first part of a play I once started to write called ‘Saul’, and a stack of poems as well. I spent so many evenings on them – we all did things like that – but it has all become so unreal to me that I can’t even imagine it any more.

When we came out here we were cut off, whether we liked it or not, from everything we had done up to that point. We often try to find a reason or an explanation for this, but we can never quite manage it. Things are particularly confused for us twenty-year-olds, for Kropp, Muller, Leer and me, the ones Kantorek called young men of iron. The older men still have firm ties to their earlier lives – they have property, wives, children, jobs and interests, and these bonds are all so strong that the war can’t break them. But for us twenty-year-olds there are only our parents, and for some of us a girlfriend. That isn’t much, because at our age parental influence is at its weakest, and girls haven’t really taken over yet. Apart from that, we really didn’t have much else; the occasional passion for something, a few hobbies, school; our lives didn’t go much further than that as yet. And now nothing is left of it all.

Kantorek would say that we had been standing on the very threshold of life itself. It’s pretty well true, too. We hadn’t had a chance to put down any roots. The war swept us away. For the others, for the older men, the war is an interruption, and they can think beyond the end of it. But we were caught up by the war, and we can’t see how things will turn out. All we know for the moment is that in some strange and melancholy way we have become hardened, although we don’t often feel sad about it any more.

If Muller wants Kemmerich’s flying boots, this doesn’t make him any more unfeeling than somebody who would find such a wish too painful even to contemplate. It’s just that he can keep things separate in his mind. If the boots were any use at all to Kemmerich, Muller would sooner walk barefoot over barbed-wire than give a single thought to getting them. But as it is, the boots are objects which now have nothing to do with Kemmerich’s condition, whereas Muller can do with them. Kemmerich is going to die, whoever gets them. So why shouldn’t Muller try and get hold of them – after all, he has more right to them than some orderly. Once Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. That’s why Muller is keeping an eye on them now.

We have lost all our ability to see things in other ways, because they are artificial. For us, it is only the facts that count. And good boots are hard to come by.

We were not always like that. We went down to the local recruiting office, still a class of twenty young men, and then we marched off en masse^[36], full of ourselves, to get a shave at the barber’s – some of us for the first time – before we set foot on a parade-ground^[37]. We had no real plans for the future and only very few of us had thoughts of careers or jobs that were firm enough to be meaningful in practical terms. On the other hand, our heads were full of nebulous ideas which cast an idealized, almost romantic glow over life and even the war for us.

We had ten weeks of basic training, and that changed us more radically than ten years at school. We learnt that a polished tunic button is more important than a set of philosophy books. We came to realize – first with astonishment, then bitterness, and finally with indifference – that intellect apparently wasn’t the most important thing, it was the kit-brush^[38]; not ideas, but the system; not freedom, but drill. We had joined up with enthusiasm and with good will; but they did everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it no longer struck us as odd that an ex-postman with a couple of stripes should have more power over us than our parents ever had, or our teachers, or the whole course of civilization from Plato^[39] to Goethe^[40]. With our young, wide-open eyes we saw that the classical notion of patriotism we had heard from our teachers meant, in practical terms at that moment, surrendering our individual personalities more completely than we would ever have believed possible even in the most obsequious errand boy^[41]. Saluting, eyes front, marching, presenting arms, right and left about, snapping to attention^[42], insults and a thousand varieties of bloody-mindedness – we had imagined that our task would be rather different from all this, but we discovered that we were being trained to be heroes the way they train circus horses, and we quickly got used to it. We even understood that some of these things were necessary, but that others, by the same token^[43], were completely superfluous. Soldiers soon sort out which is which.

In threes and fours our class was scattered around the different squads as we were put in with fishermen from the Frisian Islands^[44], farmers, labourers and artisans, and we soon got friendly with them. Kropp, Muller, Kemmerich and I were put into Number Nine Squad, the one commanded by Corporal Himmelstoss.

He was reckoned to be the stickiest bastard in the whole barracks^[45], and he was proud of it. He was a short, stocky bloke with twelve years’ service in the reserve, a gingery moustache with waxed ends, and in civilian life he was a postman. He took a particular dislike to Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus and me because he sensed our unspoken defiance.

One day I had to make his bed fourteen times. Every time he found some fault with it and pulled it apart. Over a period of twenty hours – with breaks, of course – I polished an ancient and rock-hard pair of boots until they were soft as butter and even Himmelstoss couldn’t find anything to complain about. On his orders I scrubbed the floor of the corporals’ mess with a toothbrush. Kropp and I once had a go at sweeping the parade-ground clear of snow with a dustpan and brush on his orders, and we would have carried on until we froze to death if a lieutenant hadn’t turned up, sent us in, and given Himmelstoss a hell of a dressing-down. Unfortunately, this only turned Himmelstoss against us even more. Every Sunday for a month I was put on guard duty, and he made me room orderly^[46] for the same amount of time. I had to practise ‘On your feet! Advance! Get down!’^[47] with full pack^[48] and rifle in a sodden ploughed field^[49] until I was nothing but a mass of mud myself and I collapsed, and then four hours later I had to present myself for inspection to Himmelstoss with all my gear spick and span^[50], although my hands were raw and bleeding. Kropp, Westhus, Tjaden and I had to stand to attention without gloves in freezing weather, with our bare fingers on the barrels of our rifles, with Himmelstoss prowling around us waiting for the slightest movement so that he could fault us. I had to run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the parade-ground at two in the morning in my night things, because my underpants were protruding half an inch more than they should over the edge of the stool where we had to lay out our kit. Himmelstoss as duty corporal ran beside me and trod on my feet. At bayonet practice^[51] I was regularly paired with Himmelstoss, and I had to use a heavy iron weapon while he had a handy wooden one, so that it was easy for him to beat me black and blue^[52] around the arms. However, I once got so furious that I rushed blindly at him and gave him such a clout in the stomach that it knocked him flat. When he tried to put me on a charge the company commander just laughed and told him to be more careful; he knew Himmelstoss of old, and didn’t seem to mind that he’d been caught out. I got to be first class at climbing on the assault course^[53], and I was pretty nearly the best at physical jerks^[54]. We trembled just at the sound of his voice, but the runaway post-horse never broke us down.

One Sunday, when Kropp and I were detailed to lug the latrine buckets across the parade-ground on a pole between us, Himmelstoss happened to come along, all poshed up and ready to go out. He stopped in front of us and asked how we were enjoying ourselves, so we faked a stumble, regardless, and tipped a bucketful over his legs. He was furious, but we had reached breaking point.

‘You’ll get clink for that^[55]!’ he shouted.

But Kropp had had enough. ‘Not before there’s been an inquiry, and that’s where we’ll spill the beans^[56],’ he said.

‘Is that how you talk to an NCO?’ roared Himmelstoss. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Don’t speak until you’re spoken to! What did you say you’d do?’

‘Spill the beans about Corporal Himmelstoss! Sir!’ said Kropp, standing to attention.

Then Himmelstoss got the message, and cleared off without saying anything, although he did manage to snarl, ‘I’ll make you lot suffer for this,’ before he disappeared – but it was the end of his power over us. During field practice he tried again with his ‘Take cover!^[57] On the feet! Move, move!’ We obeyed all his orders, of course, because orders are orders and have to be obeyed. But we followed them so slowly that it drove Himmelstoss to despair. Taking it at a nice comfortable pace, we went down on to our knees, then on to our elbows and so on, and meanwhile he had already shouted another enraged order. He was hoarse before we were even sweating.

From then on he left us in peace. He went on calling us miserable little swine, of course. But there was respect in his voice.

There were plenty of decent drill corporals around, men who were more reasonable; the decent ones were even in the majority. More than anything else every one of them wanted to hang on to his safe job here at home for as long as possible – and they could only do that by being tough with recruits.

In the process we probably picked up every little detail of parade-ground drill that there was, and often we were so angry that it brought us to screaming pitch. It made a good few of us ill, and one of us, Wolf, actually died of pneumonia. But we would have been ashamed of ourselves if we had thrown in the towel^[58]. We became tough, suspicious, hardhearted, vengeful and rough – and a good thing too, because they were just the qualities we needed. If they had sent us out into the trenches without this kind of training, then probably most of us would have gone mad. But this way we were prepared for what was waiting for us.

We didn’t break; we adapted. The fact that we were only twenty helped us to do that, even though it made other things so difficult. But most important of all, we developed a firm, practical feeling of solidarity, which grew, on the battlefield, into the best thing that the war produced – comradeship in arms.

I’m sitting by Kemmerich’s bed. He is fading more and more visibly. There’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing around us.^[59] A hospital train has come in, and they are sorting out any of the wounded that can be moved. A doctor goes past Kemmerich’s bed and doesn’t even look at him.

‘Next time round, Franz,’ I tell him.

He lifts himself up on one elbow, propped against the pillow. ‘They’ve amputated my leg.’

So now he has realized after all. I nod and by way of a response I say, ‘You want to be glad that you got away with that.’

He doesn’t say anything.

I carry on talking. ‘It could have been both your legs, Franz. Wegler lost his right arm. That’s a lot worse. And it means you’ll go home.’

He looks at me. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course I do.’

He says it again, ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course you will, Franz. You just have to recover from the operation.’

He signals to me to come a bit closer. I lean over him and he whispers, ‘I don’t reckon I will.’

‘Don’t talk such rubbish, Franz, you’ll see yourself that I’m right in a couple of days. It’s not such a big thing, having a leg amputated. They patch up a lot of worse things here.’

He lifts his hand. ‘Just have a look at my fingers.’

‘That’s all because of the operation. Just get a decent amount of grub into you, and you’ll pick up again. Are they feeding you properly?’

He points to a dish, but it is still half full. I begin to get worked up. ‘Franz, you’ve got to eat. Eating is the main thing. And the food’s pretty good here.’

He shakes his head. After a while he says slowly, ‘I used to want to be a forester.’

I try to reassure him. ‘You still can be. They can make amazing artificial limbs these days – you hardly notice that they aren’t real. They fix them on to the muscles. You can move the fingers on artificial hands and you can use them, you can even write. And besides, they are making improvements all the time.’

He lies there for a while without a word. Then he says, ‘You can take my flying boots for Muller.’

I nod and try to think of something to say that will cheer him up. His lips are pallid, his mouth has got bigger and his teeth look very prominent, as if they were made of chalk. His flesh is melting away, his forehead is higher, his cheekbones more pronounced. The skeleton is working its way to the surface. His eyes are sinking already. In a few hours it will all be over.

He isn’t the first one I have seen like this; but we grew up together, and that always makes it different. I’ve copied school exercises from him. In school he usually wore a brown jacket with a belt, with parts of the sleeves worn smooth. And he was the only one of us that could do a full arm-turn on the high bar^[60]. His hair flew into his face like silk when he did it. Kantorek was proud of him for being able to do it. But he couldn’t stand cigarettes. His skin was very white, and there was something feminine about him.

I glance down at my own boots. They are big and heavy and my trousers are tucked into them; standing up, you look solid and strong in these wide-legged things. But when we undress for swimming we suddenly have thin legs and narrow shoulders. We aren’t soldiers any more then, we are almost schoolboys again; nobody would believe that we could carry a full pack. It is really strange when we are naked; we are civilians again, and we almost feel like civilians.

Whenever we went swimming, Franz Kemmerich used to look as small and slim as a child. Now he is lying there – and for what reason? Everybody in the whole world ought to be made to walk past his bed and be told: ‘This is Franz Kemmerich, he’s nineteen and a half, and he doesn’t want to die! Don’t let him die!’

My thoughts run wild. This smell of carbolic and gangrene clogs the lungs, like thick, suffocating porridge.

It gets dark. Kemmerich’s face gets paler, it stands out against his pillow and is so white that it looks luminous. He makes a small movement with his mouth. I get closer to him. He whispers, ‘If you find my watch, send it home.’

I don’t argue. There is no point any more. He is beyond convincing. I’m sick with helplessness. That forehead, sunk in at the temples, that mouth, which is all teeth now, that thin, sharp nose. And the flit, tearful woman at home that I shall have to write to – I wish I had that job behind me already.

Hospital orderlies move about with bottles and buckets. One comes up to us, glances at Kemmerich speculatively and goes away again. He is obviously waiting – probably he needs the bed.

I get close to Franz and start to talk, as if that could save him: ‘Maybe you’ll finish up in that convalescent home^[61] in Klosterberg, Franz, up where the big houses are. Then you’ll be able to look out over the fields from your window, right across to the two trees on the horizon. It’s the best time now, when the corn is ripening, and the fields look like mother-of-pearl^[62] when the evening sun is on them. And the row of poplars by the stream where we used to catch sticklebacks. You can get yourself an aquarium again and breed fish, and you can go out without having to ask permission and you can even play the piano again if you want to.’

I bend down over his face, which is now in shadow. He is still breathing, but faintly. His face is wet, he is crying. So much for my stupid chattering.

‘Come on, Franz —’ I put my arm around his shoulder and my face is close to his. ‘Do you want to get some sleep now?’

He doesn’t answer. The tears are running down his cheeks. I would like to wipe them away, but my handkerchief is too dirty.

An hour passes. I sit there, tense and watching his every movement, in case he might want to say something else. If only he would open his mouth wide and scream. But he just weeps, his head turned away. He doesn’t talk about his mother or his brothers and sisters; he doesn’t say anything. All that is probably already far behind him; now he is all alone with his life of nineteen short years, and he is crying because it is slipping away from him.

This is the hardest, the most desperately difficult leave-taking I have experienced, although it was bad with Tiedjen, too, who kept on shouting for his mother – Tiedjen was a great tough chap who held the doctor away from his bed with a bayonet, his eyes wide open with terror, until he collapsed.

Suddenly Kemmerich groans, and there is rattling in his throat.

I’m on my feet, rush outside and ask, ‘Where’s the doctor?’ I see a white coat and grab hold of it. ‘Please come quickly or Franz Kemmerich will die.’

He pulls away from me and says to a hospital orderly who is standing nearby, ‘What’s all this about?’

The orderly replies, ‘Bed twenty-six, amputation at the upper thigh.’

‘How should I know anything about it?’ the doctor snaps, ‘I’ve done five leg amputations today.’ Then he pushes me out of the way, tells the orderly, ‘Go and see to it,’ and rushes off to the operating room.

I’m shaking with anger as I follow the orderly. The man looks round at me and says, ‘One operation after the other since five o’clock this morning – crazy, I tell you; just today we’ve had another sixteen fatalities – your man will make seventeen. There’s bound to be twenty at least —’

I feel faint; suddenly I can’t go on. I don’t even want to curse any more – it’s pointless. I just want to throw myself down and never get up again.

We reach Kemmerich’s bed. He is dead. His face is still wet with tears. His eyes are half open, and look as yellow as old-fashioned horn buttons.

The orderly nudges me. ‘Taking his things with you?’

I nod.

‘We’ve got to move him right away,’ he continues. ‘We need the bed. We’ve already got them lying on the ground out there.’

I take the things and undo Kemmerich’s identity tag^[63]. The orderly asks for his pay book^[64]. It isn’t 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, I’m running. Soldiers come towards me, their words excite me, even though I can’t 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 haven’t 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 – they’re already making it out of sawdust. But what about beans? Do you fancy some?’

The young soldier colours up. ‘You don’t 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] That’s 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, you’ll 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 can’t tell who they are just by looking. Every company has one or two of them. Katczinsky is the sharpest I know. I think he’s a shoemaker by trade, but that’s got nothing to do with it – he’s a master of everything. It’s 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 Kat’s orders whenever something’s going on that needs a strong right arm, then he’s 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 wasn’t screwed down^[72]. We’re 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 haven’t 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 that’s where the straw comes from. We could sleep warmly now, if only we weren’t 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. There’s nothing. You won’t find a crust of bread round here.’

‘Aren’t 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.’ That’s pretty bad. In that case we’ll 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 don’t strain yourself picking things up.’

We lie down, disappointed, and wonder whether to break into our iron rations^[73] or not. But we don’t 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 God’s sake^[74], be cooked separately. Somebody grumbles that he will chop Tjaden into the right herbs if he doesn’t 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 gunner’s pipe drops out of his mouth. He feels the bread. ‘Straight up, it’s real bread, and still warm.’

Kat doesn’t say another thing. He has the bread and that is it; nothing else is of any importance. I’m 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 isn’t sure what to do. He wonders whether or not to congratulate Kat, so that maybe he will get a share too. But Katczinsky doesn’t 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 mustn’t 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.

That’s 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. He’d 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 it’s 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.

We’ve 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 can’t get over this. ‘Watch out, lads,’ he says, ‘we’ll 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, war’s 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.

The barrack windows are empty and dark. Battledress trousers^[78] are hanging out of a few of them, drying. You look enviously across at the barracks, where the rooms are cool —

Oh, you dark and musty platoon huts, with your iron bedsteads, chequered bedding and the tall lockers with those stools in front of them! Even you can turn into objects of longing; seen from out here, you can even take on some of the wonderful aura of home, you great rooms, so full of the smells of stale food, sleep, smoke and clothes!

Katczinsky describes them in glowing colours and with great fervour. What would we not give to be able to go back to those rooms. We don’t dare to think any further than that —

You rifle drills, first thing in the morning! ‘How do you break down a standard-issue rifle?^[79]’ You PT sessions in the afternoon! ‘Fall out anyone who can play the piano! Right turn! Report to the kitchens for spud bashing^[80]!’

We wallow in our memories. Then Kropp laughs suddenly and says, ‘Change at Lohne!’

That was Corporal Himmelstoss’s favourite game. Lohne is a station where you have to change trains, and so that anyone going on leave^[81] did not get lost when he got there, Himmelstoss used to practise changing platforms with us in the barracks. We were supposed to learn that you reach the connecting train in Lohne by way of an underpass. Our beds represented the underpass and everyone had to stand to attention on the left-hand side. Then came the order ‘Change at Lohne!’ and everyone had to scramble as quickly as possible under the bed and out the other side. We practised that for hours on end…

Meanwhile the German plane has been shot down. It plummets, with a trail of smoke behind it like a comet. Kropp has lost a bottle of beer on it, and pays up with ill grace.