The girl on the poster is a wonder to us. We have quite forgotten that there are such things, and even now we hardly believe our eyes. We have seen nothing like it for years, nothing like it for happiness, beauty and joy. That is peacetime, that is as it should be; we feel excited.

“Just look at those thin shoes though, she couldn’t march many miles in those,” I say, and then begin to feel silly, for it is absurd to stand in front of the picture like this and think of nothing but marching.

“How old would she be?” Kropp asks.

“About twenty-two at the most,” I hazard.

“Then she would be older than us! She is not more than seventeen, let me tell you!”

It gives us goose flesh.

“That would be good, Albert, what do you think?”

He nods. “I have some white trousers at home too.”