Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?"
"Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?"
"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again.
It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head:
"You mean when the war's over?"
"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: