The gendarme in Putim examined Schweik with that suspicious look that officers reserve for people who appear all too harmless. Schweik stood there, his hands on his trouser seam, his face as trusting as a boxer dog at its food bowl.
"So, Schweik," the gendarme began, tapping his pencil on the report, "you claim you're on your way to Budweis to join your unit?"
"Yes, Sergeant!" Schweik answered eagerly. "I've been marching for three days now, because the railway is notoriously full of troop transports. So I thought a little exercise wouldn't hurt. Our colonel always said, 'Schweik, you're a model of discipline!'"
The gendarme sighed. "And why, if I may ask, did you declare last night at the 'Zum stehender Hecht' inn that war was a mess?"
Schweik opened his eyes wide. "There must be a misunderstanding, Sergeant! I was just saying that the food in the field is sometimes a mess. Last year in Galicia, there were only pickles and hard bread – even our captain said..."
"Schweik!" the gendarme interrupted. "You're a clever one. But you know what? I'm sending you to Budweis on the next train today – under supervision."
"Very well, Sergeant!" Schweik beamed. "That saves me the running. Our senior doctor always said: 'Schweik, don't overexert yourself!' A very fine gentleman, just a drunk, unfortunately..."
The gendarme clutched his head. "March, Schweik! Before I go crazy."