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Steiner had been mistaken also. He turned to him. ‘Did you really hear them?’
    Steiner frowned. ‘Of course. I said so clearly enough, didn’t I? ’
    ‘Yes,’ Dietz murmured, intimidated. He glanced again at Anselm who was staring tight -lipped into space. The others, too, all seemed ill -humoured; a wall of hostile faces surrounded him with silent menace. He felt that he could placate them, but could not decide how to do it, especially since he did not want to offend Steiner. Finally a diplomatic solution occurred to him. With a weak smile he turned to Krüger and said: ‘It’s odd, all the same.’
    ‘There’s nothing odd about it,’ Steiner said sharply. ‘What’s odd about bells ringing on Sunday morning?’
    They stared at him in surprise. Abruptly, Krüger slapped his powerful thigh with a report like the crack of a gun. ‘Why of course,’ he exclaimed loudly, ‘today’s Sunday. I never even thought of it.’
    ‘There you have it,’ Schnurrbart said with relief. * Why shouldn’t bells be ringing on Sunday?’
    Their mood had changed instantly. They nodded and threw one another meaning looks. ‘Sunday!’ Maag sighed. ‘Back home, at this hour, I’d still be snoozing.’
    ‘And then getting up for coffee and cake,’ Pasternack said nostalgically.
    Krüger cursed. ‘Cut it out,’ he protested. ‘What’s the use of water in my mouth when there’s more room for it in my bladder.’
    ‘Pretty good,’ Schnurrbart chuckled. He had removed his steel helmet and was busy scratching his tangled hair. But Pasternack was still lost in pleasant recollections. He twisted his thin, hungry face into a grimace and said: ‘I think a man has a right to talk about cake.’ He sounded challenging, and Krüger turned his face toward him. ‘You can talk about shit too,’ he declared irritably. Pasternack shook his head. ‘Do you have to be so foul -mouthed all the time?’
    ‘Foul -mouthed?’ Krüger stared at him in astonishment.
    ‘Yes, foul -mouthed,’ Pasternack repeated emphatically. His usual melancholic expression returned to his tired face. A strand of blond hair dangled over his pimpled forehead.
    ‘Look. Who’s talking filth all of a sudden,’ Krüger sneered.
    Dietz intervened. ‘Cut out the bickering for once, since it is Sunday.’
    ‘You can stick your Sunday,’ Krüger said violently. ‘What the hell does the army care about Sundays? Here!’ He ran his hand over his unshaven face. ‘Is that what you call Sunday?’ In sudden fury he opened the top buttons of his tunic and pulled out a patch of filthy shirt. ‘We look like pigs!’ he snapped. ‘This is the way they let us go around, the bastards.’
    Schnurrbart grinned at his flushed face. For him, there had always been something likeable about the East Prussian’s crude candour. And he’s right, he thought; no clean clothes for a month. The thought aroused a twitching feeling in his skin that travelled up his back all the way to his head. The damned lice, he thought. For a moment he tried to imagine what it would feel like to be standing under a hot shower and scrubbing his back with a stiff -bristled brush. It was maddening to imagine it. He sighed and with his thumb scratched his neck where the itching was worst. Krüger had meanwhile shoved his shirt back under his tunic. He looked over at Steiner who had watched with expressionless face, while listening with half an ear to a conversation between Dorn and two of the others.
    ‘We have about twenty miles to go,’ Steiner reminded them roughly. ‘According to the map, the woods are all marsh. Besides which there must be a stream somewhere in the middle of it. I hope you realize what we’re facing. Anyone who passes out is going to be left behind.’ He turned and started down the mountain. They watched him for a moment in consternation, then stood up, shouldered their gear and followed. They kept to the middle of the clearing and took care not to slip on the smooth