“Exactly. You’ve said it.”
“Well, there’d be women of course, eh?”—Haie licks his lips.
“Sure.”
“By Jove yes,” says Haie, his face melting, “then I’d grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn’t put trousers on again for a week.”
Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says:
“And then what?”
A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: “If I were a non-com. I’d stay with the Prussians and serve out my time.”
“Haie, you’ve got a screw loose, surely!” I say.
“Have you ever dug peat?” he retorts good-naturedly. “You try it.”
Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp’s mess-tin.
“It can’t be worse than digging trenches,” I venture.
Haie chews and grins: “It lasts longer though. And there’s no getting out of it either.”
78
