“Cheerio, Franz.”

I promise him to come back in the morning. Müller talks of doing so, too. He is thinking of the lace-up boots and means to be on the spot.

Kemmerich groans. He is feverish. We get hold of an orderly outside and ask him to give Kemmerich a dose of morphia.

He refuses. “If we were to give morphia to everyone we would have to have tubs full⁠—”

“You only attend to officers properly,” says Kropp viciously.

I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it.

“Are you usually allowed to give it, then?” I ask him.

He is annoyed. “If you don’t think so, then why do you ask?”