As we drink, I look at each of them in turn. Albert sits beside me and smokes, he is cheerful, we have always been together;⁠—opposite squats Kat, with his drooping shoulders, his broad thumb, and calm voice⁠—Müller with the projecting teeth and the booming laugh; Tjaden with his mousey eyes;⁠—Leer who has grown a full beard and looks at least forty.

Over us hangs a dense cloud of smoke. Where would a soldier be without tobacco? The canteen is his refuge, and beer is far more than a drink, it is a token that a man can move his limbs and stretch in safety. We do it ceremonially, we stretch our legs out in front of us and spit deliberately, that is the only way. How it all rises up before a man when he is going away the next morning!