Chapter 1

17 min

We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace. Each man has another mess-tin full for the evening; and, what is more, there is a double ration of sausage and bread. That puts a man in fine trim. We have not had such luck as this for a long time. The cook with his carroty head is begging us to eat; he beckons with his ladle to every one that passes, and spoons him out a great dollop. He does not see how he can empty his stew-pot in time for coffee. Tjaden and Müller have produced two wash-basins and had them filled up to the brim as a reserve. In Tjaden this is voracity, in Müller it is foresight. Where Tjaden puts it all is a mystery, for he is and always will be as thin as a rake.

We are resting five miles behind the front. We were relieved yesterday, and now our bellies are full of beef and beans. We are satisfied and at peace. Each man has another mess tin full for the evening. On top of that, we have a double ration of sausage and bread. That puts a man in fine shape. We have not had luck like this for a long time. The redheaded cook is begging us to eat. He waves his ladle at everyone who passes and serves each man a huge helping. He does not see how he can empty his stew pot in time for coffee. Tjaden and Müller have brought out two washbasins and had them filled to the brim as a reserve. For Tjaden, this is greed. For Müller, it is foresight. Where Tjaden puts it all is a mystery, because he is and always will be as thin as a rake.

What's more important still is the issue of a double ration of smokes. Ten cigars, twenty cigarettes, and two quids of chew per man; now that is decent. I have exchanged my chewing tobacco with Katczinsky for his cigarettes, which means I have forty altogether. That's enough for a day.

Even more important, we each get a double ration of smokes. Ten cigars, twenty cigarettes, and two plugs of chewing tobacco per man. Now that's decent. I traded my chewing tobacco to Katczinsky for his cigarettes, so I have forty cigarettes altogether. That's enough for a day.

It is true we have no right to this windfall. The Prussian is not so generous. We have only a miscalculation to thank for it.

It is true that we have no right to this windfall. The Prussian is not that generous. We have it only because of a miscalculation.

Fourteen days ago we had to go up and relieve the front line. It was fairly quiet on our sector, so the quartermaster who remained in the rear had requisitioned the usual quantity of rations and provided for the full company of one hundred and fifty men. But on the last day an astonishing number of English field-guns opened up on us with high-explosive, drumming ceaselessly on our position, so that we suffered heavily and came back only eighty strong.

Two weeks ago, we had to go up and relieve the troops at the front line. Our sector was fairly quiet, so the quartermaster stayed behind and ordered the usual rations for the full company of 150 men. But on the last day, an astonishing number of English field guns opened fire on us with high-explosive shells. They pounded our position without stopping, so we suffered heavy losses and came back only eighty strong.

Last night we moved back and settled down to get a good sleep for once: Katczinsky is right when he says it would not be such a bad war if only one could get a little more sleep. In the line we have had next to none, and fourteen days is a long time at one stretch.

Last night we moved back and settled down to get a good night's sleep for once. Katczinsky is right when he says the war would not be so bad if only we could get a little more sleep. We got almost none at the front, and fourteen days is a long stretch.

It was noon before the first of us crawled out of our quarters. Half an hour later every man had his mess-tin and we gathered at the cook-house, which smelt greasy and nourishing. At the head of the queue of course were the hungriest—little Albert Kropp, the clearest thinker among us and therefore the first to be lance-corporal; Müller, who still carries his school textbooks with him, dreams of examinations, and during a bombardment mutters propositions in physics; Leer, who wears a full beard and has a preference for the girls from officers' brothels. He swears that they are obliged by an army order to wear silk chemises and to bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of major and upwards. And as the fourth, myself, Paul Bäumer. All four are nineteen years of age, and all four joined up from the same class as volunteers for the war.

It was noon before the first of us crawled out of our quarters. Half an hour later, every man had his mess tin, and we gathered at the cookhouse. It smelled greasy and nourishing. Of course, the hungriest were at the front of the line. There was little Albert Kropp, the clearest thinker among us, and therefore the first to become a lance corporal. There was Müller, who still carries his school textbooks and dreams of exams. During a bombardment, he mutters principles of physics. Then there was Leer, who wears a full beard and prefers the girls from officers’ brothels. He swears that an army order requires them to wear silk chemises. They must also bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of major and above. The fourth was me, Paul Bäumer. All four of us are nineteen, and we all volunteered for the war from the same class.

Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny lock-smith of our own age, the biggest eater of the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs.

Close behind us were our friends. There was Tjaden, a skinny locksmith our age and the biggest eater in the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a pregnant bug. Then there was Haie Westhus, also our age, a peat digger. He can easily hold a ration loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist. Next was Detering, a farmer who thinks of nothing but his farmyard and his wife. Finally, there was Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group. He was shrewd, cunning, hard-bitten, and forty years old. He had an earthy face, blue eyes, and bent shoulders. He also had a remarkable nose for bad weather, good food, and easy jobs.

Our gang formed the head of the queue before the cook-house. We were growing impatient, for the cook paid no attention to us.

Our group was at the front of the line outside the cookhouse. We were getting impatient because the cook was ignoring us.

Finally Katczinsky called out to him: "Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done."

Finally, Katczinsky called out to him: "Hey, Heinrich, open up the soup kitchen. Anyone can see the beans are done."

He shook his head sleepily: "You must all be there first." Tjaden grinned: "We are all here."

He shook his head sleepily. "You all have to be there first." Tjaden grinned. "We're all here."

The sergeant-cook still took no notice. "That may do for you," he said. "But where are the others?"

The sergeant-cook still paid no attention. "That may be enough for you," he said. "But where are the others?"

"They won't be fed by you to-day. They're either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies."

"You won't be feeding them today. They're either at the aid station or pushing up daisies."

The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. "And I have cooked for one hundred and fifty men——"

As the facts sank in, the cook grew upset. He was stunned. "And I cooked for one hundred and fifty men..."

Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, begin!"

Kropp poked him in the ribs. "Then for once we'll have enough. Come on, start!"

Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousey features began to shine, his eyes grew small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: "Man! then you've got bread for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?"

Suddenly, an idea struck Tjaden. His sharp, mouselike features lit up, his eyes narrowed slyly, and his jaw twitched. He whispered hoarsely: "Man! Then you've got bread for 150 men too, right?"

The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered.

The sergeant-cook nodded absently, looking confused.

Tjaden seized him by the tunic. "And sausage?"

Tjaden grabbed him by the tunic. "And sausage?"

Ginger nodded again.

Tjaden's chaps quivered. "Tobacco too?"

Tjaden's cheeks trembled. "Tobacco too?"

"Yes, everything."

Tjaden beamed: "What a bean-feast! That's all for us! Each man gets—wait a bit—yes, practically two issues."

Tjaden beamed: "What a feast! That's all for us! Each man gets, wait a moment, yes, practically two rations."

Then Ginger stirred himself and said: "That won't do."

Then Ginger roused himself and said: "That won't do."

Then we got excited and began to crowd around.

Then we got excited and started crowding around.

"Why won't that do, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky.

"Why won't that work, you old carrot?" demanded Katczinsky.

"Eighty men can't have what is meant for a hundred and fifty."

"Eighty men can't have what's meant for a hundred and fifty."

"We'll soon show you," growled Müller.

"We'll show you soon," growled Müller.

"I don't care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men," persisted Ginger.

"I don't care about the stew, but I can only give out rations for eighty men," Ginger insisted.

Katczinsky got angry. "You might be generous for once. You haven't drawn food for eighty men. You've drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let's have it then. We are the Second Company."

Katczinsky got angry. "You could be generous for once. You didn't get food for eighty men. You got it for the Second Company. Fine. Give us the food. We are the Second Company."

We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food twice came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shell-fire he wouldn't bring his kitchen up near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front line.

We began to shove the man around. No one liked him, because twice the food had reached us at the front late and cold. He wouldn't bring his kitchen close enough when shells were falling. So our soup carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies. Bulcke of the First Company is a much better man. He's as fat as a hamster in winter, but when he has to, he wheels his pots right up to the front line.

We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our company commander had not appeared. He informed himself of the dispute, and only remarked: "Yes, we did have heavy losses yesterday."

We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a fight if our company commander had not appeared. He found out what the dispute was about and only said, "Yes, we did suffer heavy losses yesterday."

He looked in the dixie. "The beans look good."

He looked in the cooking pot. "The beans look good."

Ginger nodded. "Cooked with meat and fat."

The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. And he knew many other things too, because he came to the company as a non-com. and was promoted from the ranks. He lifted the lid from the dixie again and sniffed. Then passing on he said: "Serve out the whole issue. We can do with it. And bring me a plate full too."

The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. He knew many other things too, because he had joined the company as a noncommissioned officer and been promoted from the ranks. He lifted the lid off the cooking pot again and sniffed. Then, as he moved on, he said: "Serve out the whole ration. We can use it. And bring me a full plate too."

Ginger looked sheepish as Tjaden danced round him.

Ginger looked embarrassed as Tjaden danced around him.

"It doesn't cost you anything! One would think the quartermaster's store belonged to him! And now get on with it, you old blubber-sticker, and don't you miscount either."

"It doesn't cost you anything! You'd think he owned the quartermaster's supplies! Now get on with it, you old fatso, and don't miscount."

"You be hanged!" spat out Ginger. When things get beyond him he throws up the sponge altogether; he just goes to pieces. And as if to show that all things were now the same to him, of his own free will he shared out half a pound of synthetic honey equally among us.

"To hell with you!" Ginger spat. When things get too much for him, he gives up completely. He just falls apart. And as if to show that nothing mattered to him anymore, he willingly shared half a pound of synthetic honey equally among us.

To-day is wonderfully good. The mail has come, and almost every man has a couple of letters and papers. We stroll over to the meadow behind the billets. Kropp has the round lid of a margarine tub under his arm.

Today is a wonderfully good day. The mail has arrived, and almost every man has a couple of letters and newspapers. We stroll over to the meadow behind our quarters. Kropp has the round lid of a margarine tub under his arm.

On the right side of the meadow a large common latrine has been built, a well-planned and durable construction. But that is for recruits who as yet have not learned how to make the most of whatever comes their way. We look for something better. Scattered about everywhere there are separate, individual boxes for the same purpose. They are square, neat boxes with wooden sides all round, and have unimpeachably satisfactory seats. On the sides are hand-grips enabling one to shift them about. We move three together in a ring and sit down comfortably. For two hours we have been here without getting up.

On the right side of the meadow, a large communal latrine has been built. It is well designed and built to last. But that latrine is for recruits who have not yet learned to make the most of whatever comes their way. We look for something better. Separate boxes for the same purpose are scattered everywhere. They are square, neat boxes with wooden sides all around and perfectly satisfactory seats. Handles on the sides make them easy to move. We arrange three in a circle and sit down comfortably. We have been here for two hours without getting up.

I well remember how embarrassed we were as recruits in barracks when we had to use the general latrine. There were no doors and twenty men sat side by side as in a railway carriage, so that they could be reviewed all at one glance, for soldiers must always be under supervision.

I remember clearly how embarrassed we were as recruits in the barracks when we had to use the communal latrine. There were no doors, and twenty men sat side by side, as in a train carriage. They could all be inspected at a glance, because soldiers must always be under supervision.

Since then we have learned better than to be shy about such trifling immodesties. In time things far worse than that came easy to us.

Since then, we have learned not to be embarrassed by such minor breaches of modesty. In time, things far worse than that became easy for us.

Here in the open air though, the business is entirely a pleasure. I no longer understand why we should always have shied at it before. It is, in fact, just as natural as eating and drinking. We did not properly appreciate these boxes when we first enlisted; they were new to us and did not fill such an important rôle—but now they have long been a matter of course.

Here in the open air, though, the whole business is a pleasure. I no longer understand why we used to shy away from it. It is, in fact, just as natural as eating and drinking. We didn’t fully appreciate these boxes when we first enlisted. They were new to us and didn’t play such an important role. But by now, we have long taken them for granted.

The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavour to expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express oneself in any other way so clearly and pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here it is the universal language.

Soldiers are more familiar with their stomachs and intestines than other men are. Three-quarters of a soldier’s vocabulary comes from these parts of the body. Such words lend a personal flavor to expressions of both his greatest joy and his deepest anger. There is no other way to express yourself so clearly and briefly. Our families and teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here everyone speaks this language.

Enforced publicity has in our eyes restored the character of complete innocence to all these things. More than that, they are so much a matter of course that their comfortable performance is fully as much enjoyed as the playing of a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word "latrine-rumour" invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms.

Being forced to do all these things in public has made them seem completely innocent to us. More than that, they are so ordinary that doing them comfortably is as enjoyable as playing a winning straight flush. The term "latrine-rumour" was invented for a reason. The latrines are the regiment’s gossip shops and common rooms.

We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience." There it can only be hygienic; here it is beautiful.

For now, we feel better off than we would in any grand, white-tiled "restroom." There it can only be clean. Here it is beautiful.

These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies.

These are wonderfully carefree hours. Above us, the sky is blue. Bright yellow observation balloons float in the sunlight on the horizon, along with many little white clouds from anti-aircraft shells. The clouds often rise in a spray as the shells follow an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front only as distant thunder. The drone of passing bumblebees completely drowns it out. A meadow full of flowers stretches around us. The tall grasses sway like spears. White butterflies flutter and float on the soft, warm wind of late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take off our caps and lay them beside us. The wind plays with our hair, our words, and our thoughts. The three boxes stand among the glowing red field poppies.

We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards with him. After every throw-in the loser pays into the pool. One could sit like this for ever.

We put the lid of the margarine tub on our knees. It makes a good table for a game of skat. Kropp has the cards. After each hand, the loser pays into the pool. We could sit like this forever.

The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look about us. One of us will say: "Well, boys...." Or "It was a near thing that time...." And for a moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze.

The sound of an accordion drifts over from the soldiers' quarters. We often put down our cards and look around. One of us says: "Well, boys...." Or "That was a close call...." For a moment, we fall silent. Each of us feels uneasy. We all feel it, and we don't need words to share it. We could easily have not been sitting here on our boxes today. It came damn close to that. And so everything feels new and beautiful, red poppies and good food, cigarettes and the summer breeze.

Kropp asks: "Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?"

Kropp asks: "Has anyone seen Kemmerich lately?"

"He's up at St. Joseph's," I tell him.

"He's at St. Joseph's," I tell him.

Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty.

Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh, a good wound that will get him sent home.

We decide to go and see him this afternoon.

We decide to visit him this afternoon.

Kropp pulls out a letter. "Kantorek sends you all his best wishes."

We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: "I wish he was here."

We laugh. Müller throws away his cigarette and says, "I wish he were here."

* *

Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, an active little man in a grey tail-coat, with a face like a shrew-mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets.

Kantorek had been our schoolteacher. He was a lively little man in a gray tailcoat, with a face like a shrew. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the "Terror of Klosterberg." It is strange how often small men cause the world’s unhappiness. They are so much more energetic and uncompromising than big men. I have always taken care to avoid sections with small company commanders. Most of them are damned little tyrants.

During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went under his shepherding to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades."

During drill time, Kantorek gave us long lectures until our whole class went under his guidance to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can still see him glaring at us through his glasses and saying in a stirring voice: "Won't you join up, Comrades."

These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and fetch them out at any hour of the day. But we didn't think of that then.

These teachers always keep their feelings ready in their vest pockets, pulling them out at any time of day. But we didn't think about that then.

There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That was Josef Behm, a plump, homely fellow. But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would have been ostracized. And perhaps more of us thought as he did, but no one could very well stand out, because at that time even one's parents were ready with the word "coward"; no one had the vaguest idea what we were in for. The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas people who were better off were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge what the consequences would be.

One of us did hesitate and did not want to go along. That was Josef Behm, a plump, plain-looking fellow. But he let himself be persuaded, or he would have been shunned. Perhaps more of us felt as he did, but no one could easily stand apart. At the time, even our parents were ready to call us a "coward". No one had the faintest idea what we were in for. The wisest were the poor and simple people. They knew the war was a disaster. But the better-off people were beside themselves with joy, though they should have been much better able to judge the consequences.

Katczinsky said that was a result of their upbringing. It made them stupid. And what Kat said, he had thought about.

Katczinsky said that was the result of their upbringing. Their upbringing made them stupid. Kat thought carefully about what he said.

Strange to say, Behm was one of the first to fall. He got hit in the eye during an attack, and we left him lying for dead. We couldn't bring him with us, because we had to come back helter-skelter. In the afternoon suddenly we heard him call, and saw him outside creeping towards us. He had only been knocked unconscious. Because he could not see, and was mad with pain, he failed to keep under cover, and so was shot down before anyone could go and fetch him in.

Strangely, Behm was one of the first to fall. He was hit in the eye during an attack, and we left him for dead. We couldn't bring him back because we had to retreat in a rush. That afternoon, we suddenly heard him call out and saw him crawling toward us. He had only been knocked unconscious. He couldn't see and was mad with pain, so he didn't stay under cover. He was shot before anyone could go out and bring him in.

Naturally we couldn't blame Kantorek for this. Where would the world be if one brought every man to book? There were thousands of Kantoreks, all of whom were convinced that there was only one way of doing well, and that way theirs.

Of course, we couldn't blame Kantorek for this. Where would the world be if we held every man accountable? There were thousands of Kantoreks. They were all convinced that there was only one way to do well, and that was their way.

And that is just why they let us down so badly.

And that is exactly why they let us down so badly.

For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity, the world of work, of duty, of culture, of progress—to the future. We often made fun of them and played jokes on them, but in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds with a greater insight and a manlier wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We had to recognize that our generation was more to be trusted than theirs. They surpassed us only in phrases and in cleverness. The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces.

For us eighteen-year-olds, they should have been guides to the adult world. They should have guided us toward work, duty, culture, progress, and the future. We often made fun of them and played jokes on them, but deep down we trusted them. We believed that the authority they represented meant deeper understanding and a more mature wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered that belief. We had to admit that our generation was more trustworthy than theirs. They were better than us only at using fine words and being clever. The first bombardment showed us our mistake. Under its fire, the world they had taught us to believe in fell apart.

While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and dying. While they taught that duty to one's country is the greatest thing, we already knew that death-throes are stronger. But for all that we were no mutineers, no deserters, no cowards—they were very free with all these expressions. We loved our country as much as they, we went courageously into every action; but also we distinguished the false from the true, we had suddenly learned to see. And we saw that there was nothing of their world left. We were all at once terribly alone; and alone we must see it through.

While they kept writing and talking, we saw the wounded and dying. While they taught that duty to one's country matters most, we already knew that the struggle of dying is stronger. Even so, we were not mutineers, deserters, or cowards. They used those words very freely. We loved our country as much as they did, and we went bravely into every battle. But we also knew what was false and what was true. We had suddenly learned to see. And we saw that nothing was left of their world. Suddenly, we were terribly alone, and we had to see it through alone.

* *

Before going over to see Kemmerich we pack up his things: he will need them on the way back.

Before we go to see Kemmerich, we pack his things. He will need them on the way back.

In the dressing station there is great activity; it reeks as ever of carbolic, ether, and sweat. Most of us are accustomed to this in the billets, but here it makes one feel faint. We ask for Kemmerich. He lies in a large room and receives us with feeble expressions of joy and helpless agitation. While he was unconscious someone had stolen his watch.

The dressing station is busy. As always, it reeks of carbolic acid, ether, and sweat. Most of us are used to the smell in our billets, but here it makes us feel faint. We ask for Kemmerich. He is lying in a large room. He greets us with weak signs of joy and helpless agitation. While he was unconscious, someone stole his watch.

Müller shakes his head: "I always told you that nobody should carry as good a watch as that."

Müller shakes his head: "I always told you nobody should carry such a good watch."

Müller is rather crude and tactless, otherwise he would hold his tongue, for anybody can see that Kemmerich will never come out of this place again. Whether he finds his watch or not will make no difference. At the most one will only be able to send it to his people.

Müller is rather rude and tactless. Otherwise, he would keep quiet, because anyone can see that Kemmerich will never leave this place. It makes no difference whether he finds his watch. At best, someone can send the watch to his family.

"How goes it, Franz?" asks Kropp.

"How's it going, Franz?" asks Kropp.

Kemmerich's head sinks.

"Not so bad ... but I have such a damned pain in my foot."

"Not so bad ... but my foot hurts like hell."

We look at his bed covering. His leg lies under a wire basket. The bed covering arches over it. I kick Müller on the shin, for he is just about to tell Kemmerich what the orderlies told us outside: that Kemmerich has lost his foot. The leg is amputated. He looks ghastly, yellow, and wan. In his face there are already the strained lines that we know so well, we have seen them now hundreds of times. They are not so much lines as marks. Under the skin the life no longer pulses, it has already pressed out to the boundaries of the body. Death is working through from within. It already has command in the eyes. Here lies our comrade, Kemmerich, who a little while ago was roasting horse-flesh with us and squatting in the shell-holes. He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate on which two pictures have been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

We look at his blanket. His leg lies under a wire basket, with the blanket arched over it. I kick Müller on the shin. He is about to tell Kemmerich what the orderlies told us outside: Kemmerich has lost his foot. His leg has been amputated. He looks ghastly, yellow, and pale. His face already has the strained lines we know so well. We have seen them hundreds of times now. They are less like lines than marks. Life no longer pulses under his skin. It has already retreated to the edges of his body. Death is working from within. It has already taken command of his eyes. Here lies our comrade, Kemmerich. A little while ago, he was roasting horse meat with us and squatting in shell holes. It is still him, and yet it is no longer him. His features have grown faint and uncertain, like a photographic plate with two pictures on it. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

I think of the time when we went away. His mother, a good plump matron, brought him to the station. She wept continually, her face was bloated and swollen. Kemmerich felt embarrassed, for she was the least composed of all; she simply dissolved into fat and water. Then she caught sight of me and took hold of my arm again and again, and implored me to look after Franz out there. Indeed he did have a face like a child, and such frail bones that after four weeks pack-carrying he already had flat feet. But how can a man look after anyone in the field!

I think back to when we left. His mother, a kind, plump woman, brought him to the station. She cried constantly, and her face was puffy and swollen. Kemmerich was embarrassed because she was less composed than anyone else. She simply dissolved into fat and water. Then she saw me, grabbed my arm again and again, and begged me to look after Franz out there. He really did have a child's face and such frail bones. After four weeks of carrying a pack, he already had flat feet. But how can a man look after anyone in the field!

"Now you will soon be going home," says Kropp. "You would have had to wait at least three or four months for your leave."

"You'll be going home soon," says Kropp. "You would have had to wait at least three or four months for leave."

Kemmerich nods. I cannot bear to look at his hands, they are like wax. Under the nails is the dirt of the trenches, it shows through blue-black like poison. It strikes me that these nails will continue to grow like long fantastic cellar-plants long after Kemmerich breathes no more. I see the picture before me. They twist themselves into corkscrews and grow and grow, and with them the hair on the decayed skull, just like grass in a good soil, just like grass, how can it be possible——

Kemmerich nods. I can't bear to look at his hands. They look like wax. Under his nails is dirt from the trenches, blue-black like poison. It occurs to me that his nails will keep growing long after Kemmerich stops breathing, like strange plants in a cellar. I can see it. The nails twist into corkscrews and grow and grow. The hair on his decayed skull grows too, just like grass in good soil, just like grass. How can it be possible...

Müller leans over. "We have brought your things, Franz."

Müller leans over. "We brought your things, Franz."

Kemmerich signs with his hand. "Put them under the bed."

Kemmerich gestures with his hand. "Put them under the bed."

Müller does so. Kemmerich starts on again about the watch. How can one calm him without making him suspicious?

Müller does so. Kemmerich starts talking about the watch again. How can we calm him down without making him suspicious?

Müller reappears with a pair of airman's boots. They are fine English boots of soft, yellow leather which reach to the knee and lace all the way—they are things to be coveted.

Müller comes back with a pair of airman's boots. They are fine English boots made of soft, yellow leather. They reach his knees and lace all the way up. Anyone would covet them.

Müller is delighted at the sight of them. He matches their soles against his own clumsy boots and says: "Will you be taking them with you then, Franz?"

Müller is delighted to see them. He compares their soles with those of his own clumsy boots and says: "Are you going to take them with you, Franz?"

We all three have the same thought; even if he should get better, he would be able to use only one—they are no use to him. But as things are now it is a pity that they should stay here; the orderlies will of course grab them as soon as he is dead.

All three of us have the same thought. Even if he gets better, he would be able to use only one, so they are no use to him. But as things stand, it would be a shame to leave them here. The orderlies will, of course, grab them as soon as he dies.

"Won't you leave them with us?" Müller repeats.

Kemmerich doesn't want to. They are his most prized possessions.

Kemmerich doesn't want to. They are the things he values most.

"Well, we could exchange," suggests Müller again. "Out here one can make some use of them." Still Kemmerich is not to be moved.

"Well, we could trade," Müller suggests again. "Out here, someone could make some use of them." But Kemmerich still refuses to budge.

I tread on Müller's foot; reluctantly he puts the fine boots back again under the bed.

I step on Müller's foot. Reluctantly, he puts the fine boots back under the bed.

We talk a little more and then take our leave.

We talk a little longer and then leave.

"Cheerio, Franz."

"Bye, Franz."

I promise him to come back in the morning. Müller talks of doing so too. He is thinking of the lace-up boots and means to be on the spot.

I promise him I’ll come back in the morning. Müller says he may come too. He is thinking about the lace-up boots and intends to be there.

Kemmerich groans. He is feverish. We get hold of an orderly outside and ask him to give Kemmerich a dose of morphia.

Kemmerich groans. He has a fever. We find an orderly outside and ask him to give Kemmerich a dose of morphine.

He refuses. "If we were to give morphia to everyone we would have to have tubs full——"

He refuses. "If we gave morphine to everyone, we would need tubs full of it..."

"You only attend to officers properly," says Kropp viciously.

"You only take proper care of officers," says Kropp viciously.

I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it.

I quickly step in and give him a cigarette. He takes it.

"Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him.

"So are you usually allowed to give it?" I ask him.

He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?"

He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, why are you asking?"

I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour——"

I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us a favor..."

"Well, all right," he says.

Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside.

Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots——"

Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. These boots give me blister after blister. Do you think he’ll last until after drill tomorrow? If he dies during the night, we know where the boots..."

Kropp returns. "Do you think——?" he asks.

Kropp comes back. "Do you think..." he asks.

"Done for," says Müller emphatically.

"Finished," Müller says firmly.

We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!"

We go back to the huts. I think about the letter I have to write to Kemmerich's mother tomorrow. I am freezing. I could use a shot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly, little Kropp throws away his cigarette and stamps on it fiercely. He looks around, his face broken and distressed, and stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!"

We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime.

We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed down. We understand his anger. Out here, every man gets that way sometime.

"What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him.

"What did Kantorek write to you?" Müller asks him.

He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth."

We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak.

All three of us smile bitterly. Kropp rants. He is glad he can speak.

Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk.

Yes, that's how all those hundred thousand Kantoreks think! Iron Youth. Youth! None of us is older than twenty. But young? Youth? That was a long time ago. We are old people.