I sit by Kemmerich's bed. He is sinking steadily. Around us is a great commotion. A hospital train has arrived and the wounded fit to be moved are being selected. The doctor passes by Kemmerich's bed without once looking at him.
"Next time, Franz," I say.
He raises himself on the pillow with his elbows. "They have amputated my leg."
He knows it too then. I nod and answer: "You must be thankful you've come off with that."
He is silent.
I resume: "It might have been both legs, Franz. Wegeler has lost his right arm. That's much worse. Besides, you will be going home." He looks at me. "Do you think so?"
"Of course."
"Do you think so?" he repeats.
"Sure, Franz. Once you've got over the operation."
He beckons me to bend down. I stoop over him and he whispers: "I don't think so."