It is ten o’clock in the evening.
In the big ward next door, where the less serious cases are, the lights are being put out. A female voice says "Good night" and is answered by a choir of the wounded. I have never seen any of those who are lying there, but I know all their voices. It begins with the bass of Shosho who has lost a leg, and ascends to the hoarse whisper of Uzi, the seventeen-year-old, who played with a hand grenade and now has only one eye.
"So, what I was going to tell you," in Shosho’s voice, "the nurse was very cautious. She asked the doctor if you can catch syphilis from the toilet seat. The doctor said: of course it is possible. But very uncomfortable."
A thin voice that I didn’t recognize laughed wildly and loudly. Someone new it seems. The others can’t produce more than a des-perate groan. It must be the tenth time they have heard this joke.
"Put on a new record!" demand the sardonic tones of Ulcus. This "Ulcus" is a major who hasn’t yet got used to lying among ordinary soldiers, who, what is more, go so far as to make jokes about his not-so-military illness. "Come on," says Shosho soothingly. "So: one day the battalion quartermaster goes into a brothel..."
"Oh, no, can’t you shut up for once?" groans Uzi.
"That’s enough - we want to get some sleep," adds the choir.
"Miserable creatures," Shosho rejoins, not giving up so easily. "One could almost imagine that you lot had done something apart from shitting today."
"Quiet please, children!" The nurse’s voice.
"Sister, pot!" calls the major.