Bayer heroin dreams. He was in a place of sweet scents: lavender, poppy, cut grass. He was dreaming of Yorkshire: spring flowers on the moors and a line of black-faced men outside his father’s surgery. But then he dreamed he was walking in the jungle: hideous masked faces watching him from the trees. Finally, he dreamed of Africa: the war, the camp, the men wanting to know what to do. “Fire! Kill them! Kill them all, sergeant! Kill every one of the bastards!” A hand on his forehead. “It’s all right, Will, it’s all right.” “What?” “You were having a nightmare.” “Uh . . . I feel—everything aches.” “What is the matter?” Kessler asked. “I’m ill, Klaus,” he groaned. “I’m ill. Not well. I should never have come here without my quinine.”
