Then I grab the plate with the great pile of cakes and squeeze myself behind the house door. A hiss, a crash, and I gallop off with the plate clamped against my chest with both hands. I am almost in, there is a rising screech, I bound, I run like a deer, sweep round the wall, fragments clatter against the concrete, I tumble down the cellar steps, my elbows are skinned, but I have not lost a single pancake, nor even upset the plate.

At two o’clock we start the meal. It lasts till six. We drink coffee until half-past six⁠—officer’s coffee from the supply dump⁠—and smoke officer’s cigars and cigarettes⁠—also from the supply dump. Punctually at half-past six we begin supper. At ten o’clock we throw the bones of the sucking pigs outside the door. Then there is cognac and rum⁠—also from the blessed supply dump⁠—and once again long, fat cigars with bellybands. Tjaden says that it lacks only one thing: Girls from an officer’s brothel.

Late in the evening we hear mewing. A little grey cat sits in the entrance. We entice it in and give it something to eat. And that wakes up our own appetites once more. Still chewing, we lie down to sleep.