He has fished out a piece of shell and tosses it to me. Apparently he is pleased at my self-control, for he seems to be more considerate of me now 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 to-morrow 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 die 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. We wait for the train. It rains and the station has no roof. Our covers are thin. We have waited already two hours. The sergeant-major looks after us like a mother. Although I feel pretty bad I do not let our scheme out of my mind. Occasionally I let him see the packet and give him one cigar in advance. In exchange the sergeant-major covers us over with a water-proof sheet. "Albert, old man," I suddenly bethink myself, "our four poster and the cat----" "And the club chairs," he adds. Yes, the club chairs with red plush. In the evening we used to sit in them like lords, and intended later on to let them out by the hour. One cigarette per hour. It might have turned into a regular business, a real good living. "And our bags of grub, too, Albert." We grow melancholy. We might have made some use of the things. If only the train left one day later Kat would be sure to find us and bring us the stuff. What damned hard luck! In our bellies there is gruel, mean hospital stuff, and in our bags roast pork. But we are so weak that we cannot work up any more excitement about it. The stretchers are sopping wet by the time the train arrives in the morning. The sergeant-major sees to it that we are put in the same car. There is a crowd of red-cross nurses. Kropp is stowed in below. I am lifted up and put into the bed above him. "Good God!" I exclaim suddenly. "What is it?" asks the sister. I cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy. "Can't you get in by yourself?" asks the sister gently. "Why yes," I say in a sweat, "but take off the bed cover first." "What for?" I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?--"It will get----" I hesitate.