Müller is delighted at the sight of them. He matches their soles against his own clumsy boots and says: “Will you be taking them with you then, Franz?”

We all three have the same thought; even if he should get better, he would be able to use only one⁠—they are no use to him. But as things are now it is a pity that they should stay here; the orderlies will of course grab them as soon as he is dead.

“Won’t you leave them with us?” Müller repeats.

Kemmerich doesn’t want to. They are his most prized possessions.

“Well, we could exchange,” suggests Müller again. “Out here one can make some use of them.” Still Kemmerich is not to be moved.

I tread on Müller’s foot; reluctantly he puts the fine boots back again under the bed.

We talk a little more and then take our leave.