Mittelstaedt has some news ready for me that electrifies me on the spot. He tells me Kantorek has been called up as a territorial.
“Just think of it,” says he, and takes out a couple of good cigars, “I come back here from the hospital and bump right into him. He stretches out his paw to me and bleats: ‘Hullo Mittelstaedt, how are you?’—I look at him and say: ‘Territorial Kantorek, business is business and schnapps is schnapps, you ought to know that well enough yourself. Stand to attention when you speak to a superior officer.’ You should have seen his face! A cross between a dud and a pickled cucumber. He tried once again to chum up. So I snubbed him a bit harder. Then he brought up his biggest guns and asked confidentially: ‘Would you like me to use my influence so that you can take an emergency-exam.?’ He was trying to remind me of those things, you know. Then I got mad and I reminded him of something instead. ‘Territorial Kantorek, two years ago you preached us into enlisting; and among us there was one, Joseph Behm, who didn’t want to enlist. He was killed three months before he would have been called up in the ordinary way. If it had not been for you he would have lived just that much longer. And now: Dismiss. You will hear from me later.’ It was easy to get put in charge
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