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.
“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 every one 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?”
I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. “Do us the favour———”
“Well, all right,” he says.
Kropp goes in with him. He doesn’t trust him and wants to see. We wait outside.
Müller returns to the subject of the boots. “They
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