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.