Dear Rolf, I am sitting on an old sandbar, tanned like a South Sea islander, dangling my feet in the water. And those feet need it, by God. Last night a Russian gunboat tried to make a landing. Krüger happened to be on guard and drove it off with his carbine. So he says. He spent two hours diving today and found two old leather boots, both of them for the left foot. Krüger insists they belonged to the captain and first mate of the boat. We chucked them back into the water. (The boots, of course. ) It’s about time you were coming back. For the past three weeks we’ve been stationed here on the Black Sea, heroically battling against boredom. We snooze all day long, and sleep all night. What a life, I tell you. It’s a pity you’re not with us. None of these birds can play chess, just when we’d have plenty of time for it. Have I written you that Maag is back again? He really stuffed his belly while he was back home; he’s put on lots of weight. Faber looked at his calendar yesterday and discovered that it’s exactly three months since you were wounded.
