“Aren’t there any inhabitants here at all then?”
He spits. “Yes, a couple. But they mostly loaf round the cook-house and beg.”
"That’s a bad business!—Then we’ll have to pull in our belts and wait till the rations come up in the morning.”
But I see Kat has put on his cap.
“Where to, Kat?” I ask.
“Just to explore the place a bit.” He strolls off. The artilleryman grins scornfully, “Let him explore! But don’t be too hopeful about it.”
Disappointed we lie down and consider whether we couldn’t have a go at the iron rations. But it’s too risky; so we try to get a wink of sleep.
Kropp divides a cigarette and hands me half. Tjaden gives an account of his national dish—broad-beans and bacon. He despises it when not flavoured with bog-myrtle, and, “for God’s sake, let it all be cooked together, not the potatoes, the beans, and the bacon separately.” Someone growls that he will pound Tjaden into bog-myrtle if he doesn’t shut up. Then all becomes quiet in the big room—only the candles flickering from the necks of a couple of bottles and the artilleryman spitting every now and then.
We stir a bit as the door opens and Kat appears.
37
