REINFORCEMENTS have arrived. The vacancies
have been filled and the sacks of straw are al-
ready laid out in the huts. Some of them are old
hands but there are twenty-five men of a later draft
from the base. They are about two years younger
than us. Kropp nudges me: "Seen the infants?"

I nod. We stick out our chests, shave in the open,
shove our hands in our pockets, inspect the recruits
and feel ourselves to be stone-age veterans.

Katczinsky joins us. We stroll past the horse-
boxes and go over to the reinforcements, who have
already been issued with gas-masks and coffee.

"Long time since you've had anything decent to
eat, eh?" Kat asks one of the youngsters.

He grimaces. "For breakfast, turnip-bread --
lunch, turnip-stew -- supper, turnip-cutlets and
turnip-salad." Kat gives a knowing whistle.

"Bread made of turnips? You've been in luck, it's
nothing new for it to be made of sawdust. But what
do you say to haricot beans? Have some?"

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