Chapter 4

24 min

We have to go up on wiring fatigue. The motor lorries roll up after dark. We climb in. It is a warm evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light.

We have to go up to lay wire. The trucks arrive after dark, and we climb in. It is a warm evening. The twilight feels like a canopy, and under its shelter we feel closer to one another. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light.

We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots.

We stand packed together, shoulder to shoulder. There is no room to sit, but we don't expect any. For once, Müller is in a good mood. He is wearing his new boots.

The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again.

The engines drone, and the trucks bounce and rattle. The roads are worn and full of potholes. We dare not use lights, so we lurch along and are often nearly thrown out. But that does not worry us. Let it happen. A broken arm is better than a hole in the guts. Many a man would be grateful for a chance to get home that way.

Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back.

Long columns of ammunition wagons stream past us. They are moving faster and overtake us as they head forward. We joke with them, and they joke back.

A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky—a glance from him to me; we understand one another.

A wall comes into view. It belongs to a house beside the road. I suddenly listen closely. Am I mistaken? Again, I hear the geese cackling clearly. I glance at Katczinsky, and he glances at me. We understand each other.

"Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there."

"Kat, I hear some candidates for the frying pan over there."

He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number."

He nods. "We'll take care of it when we get back. I have their number."

Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles.

Of course Kat knows where to find them. He knows about every goose leg within fifteen miles.

The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there.

The trucks arrive at the artillery lines. The gun positions are hidden with bushes to keep them out of sight from the air. They look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. The branches might seem bright and cheerful if cannons were not nestled among them.

The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace.

The air grows acrid with gun smoke and fog. The powder fumes taste bitter on our tongues. The roar of the guns makes our truck stagger. The echoes roll furiously toward the rear. Everything shakes. Our faces change almost imperceptibly. We are not on the front line, but in the reserves. Yet every face says: This is the Front, and now we are in its embrace.

It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun."

It is not fear. Men who have been to the front as often as we have become hardened. Only the young recruits are nervous. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch shell. You hear the explosion first, then the sound of the gun."

But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."

But we cannot hear the hollow sound of the firing. It is lost in the general rumble of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment tonight."

We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp.

We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are already firing," says Kropp.

The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock.

We can hear the shelling clearly. It is coming from the English batteries to the right of our section. They are starting an hour too early. By our reckoning, they start promptly at ten o'clock.

"What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast."

"What's wrong with them?" says Müller. "Their clocks must be fast."

"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders.

"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you. I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs.

Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning.

Three shells land beside us. Flames flash across the fog, and fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think we will be back in the huts early in the morning.

Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby—and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness.

Our faces are no paler or more flushed than usual. They are no tenser or looser, but they have changed. We feel a connection snap into place in our blood. That is not a figure of speech. It is a fact. The front, our awareness of it, makes this connection. As soon as the first shells whistle overhead and explosions tear through the air, we wait and watch tensely. We feel it in our veins, our hands, and our eyes. We become more alert, and our senses grow strangely sharp. In an instant, the body is fully prepared.

It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres.

It often seems to me that the trembling, vibrating air leaps silently at us. Or it seems as if the front itself sends out an electric current that awakens unknown nerve centers.

Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring.

It is the same every time. We set out for the front as ordinary soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy. Then we reach the first gun positions, and every word we speak takes on a new sound.

When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning—"There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard.

When Kat stands in front of the hut and says, "There'll be a bombardment," it is only his opinion. But if he says it here, the words are as sharp as a bayonet in the moonlight. They cut clean through our thoughts. They come closer and speak to this unknown thing awakened in us, a dark meaning: "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our deepest, most secret life that shivers and goes on guard.

* *

To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself.

To me, the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far from its center, I feel its pull. It is drawing me in slowly, irresistibly, and inescapably.

From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us—mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and gives him a new lease of ten seconds of life, receives him again and often for ever.

Strength flows into us from the earth and the air, but mostly from the earth. The earth means more to a soldier than to anyone else. When he presses himself hard against her for a long time, she is his only friend, his brother, his mother. Afraid of being killed by shellfire, he buries his face and limbs deep in her. He muffles his terror and his cries in her silence and safety. She shelters him and gives him another ten seconds of life. Then she takes him back again, often forever.

Earth!—Earth!—Earth!

Earth! Earth! Earth!

Earth with thy folds, and hollows and holes, into which a man may fling himself and crouch down! In the spasm of terror, under the hailing of annihilation, in the bellowing death of the explosions, O Earth, thou grantest us the great resisting surge of new-won life. Our being, almost utterly carried away by the fury of the storm, streams back through our hands from thee, and we, thy redeemed ones, bury ourselves in thee, and through the long minutes in a mute agony of hope bite into thee with our lips!

Earth, with your folds, hollows, and holes where a man can throw himself down and crouch! In our spasms of terror, under the hail of destruction and the roaring death of explosions, you give us strength to resist. You give us a surge of new life. The fury of the storm has almost swept our very being away, but it flows back from you through our hands. We, whom you have saved, bury ourselves in you. Through long minutes of silent, desperate hope, we bite into you with our lips!

At the sound of the first droning of the shells we rush back, in one part of our being, a thousand years. By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it is far quicker, much more sure, less fallible, than consciousness. One cannot explain it. A man is walking along without thought or heed;—suddenly he throws himself down on the ground and a storm of fragments flies harmlessly over him;—yet he cannot remember either to have heard the shell coming or to have thought of flinging himself down. But had he not abandoned himself to the impulse he would now be a heap of mangled flesh. It is this other, this second sight in us, that has thrown us to the ground and saved us, without our knowing how. If it were not so, there would not be one man alive from Flanders to the Vosges.

At the first droning sound of shells, part of us goes back a thousand years. An animal instinct awakens in us, guiding and protecting us. It is not conscious thought. It is far quicker, much more reliable, and less prone to error than consciousness. No one can explain it. A man is walking along without thinking or paying attention. Suddenly, he throws himself to the ground, and a storm of fragments flies harmlessly over him. Yet he cannot remember hearing the shell coming or thinking of throwing himself down. But if he had not given in to that impulse, he would now be a heap of mangled flesh. This other sense, this second sight within us, has thrown us to the ground and saved us. We do not know how. If this were not so, not one man would be alive from Flanders to the Vosges.

We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers—we reach the zone where the front begins and become on the instant human animals.

We march up as soldiers, whether moody or cheerful. When we reach the front, we instantly become human animals.

* *

An indigent looking wood receives us. We pass by the soup-kitchens. Under cover of the wood we climb out. The lorries turn back. They are to collect us again in the morning, before dawn.

A poor-looking wood welcomes us. We pass the soup kitchens. Under cover of the trees, we climb out. The trucks turn back. They will pick us up again in the morning, before dawn.

Mist and the smoke of guns lie breast-high over the fields. The moon is shining. Along the road troops file. Their helmets gleam softly in the moonlight. The heads and the rifles stand out above the white mist, nodding heads, rocking carriers of guns.

Mist and gun smoke hang chest-high over the fields. The moon is shining. Troops march in a line along the road. Their helmets gleam softly in the moonlight. Their heads and rifles stand out above the white mist. Their heads nod, and the men carrying the guns sway as they walk.

Farther on the mist ends. Here the heads become figures; coats, trousers, and boots appear out of the mist as from a milky pool. They become a column. The column marches on, straight ahead, the figures resolve themselves into a block, individuals are no longer recognizable, the dark wedge presses onward, fantastically topped by the heads and weapons floating off on the milky pool. A column—not men at all.

Farther on, the mist ends. Here the heads become figures. Coats, trousers, and boots emerge from the mist as if from a milky pool. The figures form a column. The column marches straight ahead, and the figures merge into a block. Individuals can no longer be recognized. The dark wedge pushes onward, strangely crowned by heads and weapons floating away on the milky pool. A column, not men at all.

Guns and munition wagons are moving along a cross-road. The backs of the horses shine in the moonlight, their movements are beautiful, they toss their heads, and their eyes gleam. The guns and the wagons float before the dim background of the moonlit landscape, the riders in their steel helmets resemble knights of a forgotten time; it is strangely beautiful and arresting.

Guns and ammunition wagons are moving along a crossroad. The horses’ backs shine in the moonlight, and their movements are beautiful. They toss their heads, and their eyes gleam. The guns and wagons seem to float against the dim, moonlit landscape. The riders in their steel helmets look like knights from a forgotten time. The scene is strangely beautiful and captivating.

We push on to the pioneer dump. Some of us load our shoulders with pointed and twisted iron stakes; others thrust smooth iron rods through rolls of wire and go off with them. The burdens are awkward and heavy.

We press on to the engineers' supply dump. Some of us load pointed, twisted iron stakes onto our shoulders. Others push smooth iron rods through rolls of wire and carry them away. The loads are awkward and heavy.

The ground becomes more broken. From ahead come warnings: "Look out, deep shell-hole on the left"—"Mind, trenches"——

The ground becomes more uneven. Warnings come from ahead: "Watch out, deep shell hole on the left." "Watch out for trenches."

Our eyes peer out, our feet and our sticks feel in front of us before they take the weight of the body. Suddenly the line halts; I bump my face against the roll of wire carried by the man in front and curse.

We peer ahead, feeling the way with our feet and sticks before putting our weight down. Suddenly the line stops. I bump my face against the roll of wire carried by the man in front of me and curse.

There are some shell-smashed lorries in the road. Another order: "Cigarettes and pipes out," We are getting near the line.

There are some trucks smashed by shells in the road. Another order: "Put out your cigarettes and pipes." We are getting close to the front line.

In the meantime it has become pitch dark. We skirt a small wood and then have the front line immediately before us.

Meanwhile, it has grown pitch dark. We go around a small patch of woods, and the front line is right in front of us.

An uncertain, red glow spreads along the sky line from one end to the other. It is in perpetual movement, punctuated with the bursts of flame from the muzzles of the batteries. Balls of light rise up high above it, silver and red spheres which explode and rain down in showers of red, white, and green stars. French rockets go up, which unfold a silk parachute to the air and drift slowly down. They light up everything as bright as day, their light shines on us and we see our shadows sharply outlined on the ground. They hover for the space of a minute before they burn out. Immediately fresh ones shoot up to the sky, and again green, red, and blue stars.

An uncertain red glow stretches across the entire horizon. It is always moving, broken by bursts of flame from the guns of the batteries. Balls of light rise high above the glow. The silver and red spheres explode, raining down red, white, and green stars. French rockets rise and release silk parachutes that drift slowly down through the air. They light up everything as brightly as day. Their light shines on us, and we see our shadows sharply outlined on the ground. The lights hang in the air for a minute before burning out. Immediately, new rockets shoot into the sky, and green, red, and blue stars appear again.

"Bombardment," says Kat.

"Shelling," says Kat.

The thunder of the guns swells to a single heavy roar and then breaks up again into separate explosions. The dry bursts of the machine-guns rattle. Above us the air teems with invisible swift movement, with howls, pipings, and hisses. They are the smaller shells;—and amongst them, booming through the night like an organ, go the great coal-boxes and the heavies. They have a hoarse, distant bellow like a rutting stag and make their way high above the howl and whistle of the smaller shells. It reminds me of flocks of wild geese when I hear them. Last autumn the wild geese flew day after day across the path of the shells.

The thunder of the guns builds into one heavy roar, then breaks apart into separate explosions again. The dry bursts of machine guns rattle. Above us, the air is full of swift, invisible movement, with howls, shrieks, and hisses. These are the smaller shells. Among them, the great coal-boxes and heavy shells boom through the night like an organ. They bellow hoarsely in the distance, like a stag in rut. They travel high above the howling and whistling of the smaller shells. When I hear them, they remind me of flocks of wild geese. Last autumn, wild geese flew across the path of the shells day after day.

The searchlights begin to sweep the dark sky. They slide along it like gigantic tapering rulers. One of them pauses, and quivers a little. Immediately a second is beside him, a black insect is caught between them and tries to escape—the airman. He hesitates, is blinded and falls.

Searchlights begin to sweep the dark sky. They slide across it like gigantic rulers that narrow to a point. One beam stops and trembles slightly. A second beam immediately joins it. A black insect is caught between them and tries to escape. It is an airman. He hesitates, is blinded, and falls.

* *

At regular intervals we ram in the iron stakes. Two men hold a roll and the others spool off the barbed wire. It is that awful stuff with close-set, long spikes. I am not used to unrolling it and tear my hand.

We drive the iron stakes into the ground at regular intervals. Two men hold a roll while the others unroll the barbed wire. It is awful stuff, with long spikes set close together. I am not used to unrolling it, and I tear my hand.

After a few hours it is done. But there is still some time before the lorries come. Most of us lie down and sleep. I try also, but it has turned too chilly. Near to the sea one is constantly waked by the cold.

After a few hours, it is done. But there is still some time before the trucks come. Most of us lie down and sleep. I try to sleep too, but it has gotten too cold. Near the sea, the cold keeps waking you up.

Once I fall fast asleep. Then waking suddenly with a start I do not know where I am. I see the stars, I see the rockets, and for a moment have the impression that I have fallen asleep at a garden fête. I don't know whether it is morning or evening, I lie in the pale cradle of the twilight, and listen for soft words which will come, soft and near—am I crying? I put my hand to my eyes, it is so fantastic, am I a child? Smooth skin:—it lasts only a second, then I recognize the silhouette of Katczinsky. The old veteran, he sits quietly and smokes his pipe—a covered pipe of course. When he sees I am awake, he says: "That gave you a fright. It was only a nose-cap, it landed in the bushes over there."

Once I fall fast asleep. Then I wake suddenly with a start and don't know where I am. I see the stars and the rockets. For a moment, I feel as if I have fallen asleep at a garden party. I don't know whether it is morning or evening. I lie in the pale cradle of twilight and listen for soft words that will come, soft and close. Am I crying? I put my hand to my eyes. The feeling is so strange. Am I a child? Smooth skin: it lasts only a second. Then I recognize the silhouette of Katczinsky. The old veteran sits quietly, smoking his pipe. It is a covered pipe, of course. When he sees I am awake, he says: "That gave you a fright. It was only a nose-cap, it landed in the bushes over there."

I sit up, I feel myself strangely alone. It's good Kat is there. He gazes thoughtfully at the front and says:

I sit up and feel strangely alone. I'm glad Kat is there. He looks thoughtfully toward the front and says:

"Mighty fine fire-works if they weren't so dangerous."

"They'd be great fireworks if they weren't so dangerous."

One lands behind us. Two recruits jump up terrified. A couple of minutes later another comes over, nearer this time. Kat knocks out his pipe. "It makes a glow."

One lands behind us. Two recruits jump up in terror. A couple of minutes later, another comes over, closer this time. Kat empties his pipe. "It glows."

Then it begins in earnest. We crawl away as well as we can in our haste. The next lands fair among us. Two fellows cry out. Green rockets shoot up on the sky-line. Barrage. The mud flies high, fragments whizz past. The crack of the guns is heard long after the roar of the explosions.

Then it really begins. We scramble away as best we can. The next shell lands right among us. Two men cry out. Green rockets shoot up on the horizon. Barrage. Mud flies high, and fragments whiz past. We hear the guns crack long after the explosions roar.

Beside us lies a fair-headed recruit in utter terror. He has buried his face in his hands, his helmet has fallen off. I fish hold of it and try to put it back on his head. He looks up, pushes the helmet off and like a child creeps under my arm, his head close to my breast. The little shoulders heave. Shoulders just like Kemmerich's. I let him be. So that the helmet should be of some use I stick it on his behind;—not for a jest, but out of consideration, since that is his highest part. And though there is plenty of meat there, a shot in it can be damned painful. Besides, a man has to lie a whole month on his belly in the hospital, and afterwards he would be almost sure to have a limp.

Beside us lies a blond recruit, terrified. He has buried his face in his hands, and his helmet has fallen off. I grab the helmet and try to put it back on his head. He looks up and pushes it off. Then he creeps under my arm like a child, his head close to my chest. His little shoulders heave, just like Kemmerich's. I leave him alone. To make some use of the helmet, I put it on his backside. I'm not joking. I'm trying to protect him, since that's the part of him sticking up highest. And though there's plenty of meat there, a shot in the backside can be damned painful. Besides, a man has to lie on his belly in the hospital for a whole month. Afterward, he would almost certainly have a limp.

It's got someone pretty badly. Cries are heard between the explosions.

It has hit someone pretty badly. Cries can be heard between the explosions.

At last it grows quiet. The fire has lifted over us and is now dropping on the reserves. We risk a look. Red rockets shoot up to the sky. Apparently there's an attack coming.

At last, it grows quiet. The shellfire has moved past us and is now falling on the reserves. We risk a look. Red rockets shoot into the sky. It looks like an attack is coming.

Where we are it is still quiet. I sit up and shake the recruit by the shoulder. "All over, kid! It's all right this time."

It is still quiet where we are. I sit up and shake the recruit by the shoulder. "It's all over, kid! We're all right this time."

He looks round him dazedly. "You'll get used to it soon," I tell him.

He looks around, dazed. "You'll get used to it soon," I tell him.

He sees his helmet and puts it on. Gradually he comes to. Then suddenly he turns fiery red and looks confused. Cautiously he reaches his hand to his behind and looks at me dismally.

He sees his helmet and puts it on. Slowly, he comes to. Then his face suddenly turns bright red, and he looks confused. He cautiously reaches toward his backside and gives me a miserable look.

I understand at once: Gun-shy. That wasn't the reason I had stuck his helmet over it. "That's no disgrace," I reassure him: "Many's the man before you has had his pants full after the first bombardment. Go behind that bush there and throw your underpants away. Get along——"

I understand at once: he’s scared of the shelling. That wasn’t why I had put his helmet over it. "That’s nothing to be ashamed of," I reassure him. "Plenty of men before you have filled their pants after their first bombardment. Go behind that bush and throw your underpants away. Go on."

* *

He goes off. Things become quieter, but the cries do not cease. "What's up, Albert?" I ask.

He leaves. Things get quieter, but the cries don't stop. "What's up, Albert?" I ask.

"A couple of columns over there have got it in the neck."

"A couple of columns over there have been hit hard."

The cries continue. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly.

The cries continue. They are not coming from men. Men could not cry out so terribly.

"Wounded horses," says Kat.

It's unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning.

It’s unbearable. It is the world moaning. It is all of creation suffering, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning.

We are pale. Detering stands up. "God! For God's sake! Shoot them!"

He is a farmer and very fond of horses. It gets under his skin. Then as if deliberately the fire dies down again. The screaming of the beasts becomes louder. One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet, silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably. Detering raves and yells out: "Shoot them! Shoot them, can't you? damn you again!"

He is a farmer and loves horses. Their suffering gets to him. Then, as if deliberately, the gunfire dies down again. The animals’ screams grow louder. In the now quiet, silvery landscape, no one can tell where the screams are coming from. Ghostly and invisible, they are everywhere, rolling endlessly between heaven and earth. Detering rages and shouts: "Shoot them! Shoot them, can't you? Damn you again!"

"They must look after the men first," says Kat quietly.

"They must take care of the men first," Kat says quietly.

We stand up and try to see where it is. If we could only see the animals we should be able to endure it better. Müller has a pair of glasses. We see a dark group, bearers with stretchers, and larger black clumps moving about. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop away in the distance, fall down, and then run on farther. The belly of one is ripped open, the guts trail out. He becomes tangled in them and falls, then he stands up again.

We stand up and try to see where it is. If only we could see the animals, we could bear it better. Müller has a pair of binoculars. We see a dark group of stretcher-bearers and larger black shapes moving around. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop away into the distance, fall down, and then run farther. One horse’s belly is ripped open, and his guts trail out. He gets tangled in them and falls, then stands up again.

Detering raises his gun and aims. Kat hits it up in the air. "Are you mad——?"

Detering raises his gun and aims. Kat knocks the gun up into the air. "Are you crazy?"

Detering trembles and throws his rifle on the ground.

Detering shakes and throws his rifle on the ground.

We sit down and hold our ears. But this appalling noise, these groans and screams penetrate, they penetrate everywhere.

We sit down and cover our ears. But the terrible noise, the groans and screams, still get through. They get through everywhere.

We can bear almost anything. But now the sweat breaks out on us. We must get up and run, no matter where, but where these cries can no longer be heard. And it is not men, only horses.

We can endure almost anything. But now we break out in sweat. We have to get up and run somewhere, anywhere we can no longer hear these cries. And the cries are not from men, only horses.

From the dark group stretchers move off again. Then single shots crack out. The black heap is convulsed and becomes thinner. At last! But still it is not the end. The men cannot overtake the wounded beasts which fly in their pain, their wide open mouths full of anguish. One of the men goes down on his knee, a shot—one horse drops—another. The last one props himself on his forelegs and drags himself round in a circle like a merry-go-round; squatting, it drags round in circles on its stiffened forelegs, apparently its back is broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly it sinks to the ground.

Stretchers move away from the dark group again. Then individual shots ring out. The black heap jerks and grows smaller. At last! But it is still not over. The men cannot catch the wounded animals as they flee in pain, their mouths wide open in anguish. One man kneels and fires. One horse falls, then another. The last horse props itself up on its front legs and drags itself around in a circle like a merry-go-round. Crouching, it circles on its stiffened front legs. Its back is apparently broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly, the horse sinks to the ground.

We take our hands from our ears. The cries are silenced. Only a long-drawn, dying sigh still hangs on the air.

We take our hands away from our ears. The cries fall silent. Only a long, dying sigh lingers in the air.

Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars—and they shine out wonderfully.

Then again, there are only the rockets, the singing shells, and the stars. The stars shine wonderfully.

Detering walks up and down cursing: "Like to know what harm they've done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war."

Detering paces back and forth, cursing. "I'd like to know what harm they've done." He brings it up again. His voice is agitated, but he sounds almost dignified as he says: "I'm telling you, using horses in war is the lowest, most despicable thing."

* *

We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey.

We head back. It is time to return to the trucks. The sky has grown a little brighter. It is three in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool. In the pale light, our faces look gray.

We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign.

We trudge on in single file through the trenches and shell holes. Once again, we reach the mist. Katczinsky is restless. His restlessness is a bad sign.

"What's up, Kat?" says Kropp.

"I wish I were back home." Home—he means the huts.

"I wish I were back home." By home, he means the huts.

"It won't last much longer, Kat."

He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know——"

He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know..."

We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses.

We reach the communication trench and then the open fields. The little wood comes into view again. We know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with its mounds and black crosses.

That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down—a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us.

At that moment, it breaks out behind us, growing louder as it roars and thunders. We duck down. A cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us.

The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety-valves—heavy fire——

The next minute, a second explosion lifts part of the woods slowly into the air. Three or four trees fly up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety valves. Heavy fire.

"Take cover!" yells somebody—"Cover!"

"Take cover!" somebody yells. "Cover!"

The fields are flat, the wood is too distant and dangerous—the only cover is the graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound.

The fields are flat, and the woods are too far away and dangerous. The only cover is the graveyard and its mounds. We stumble across in the dark. As if whisked away, every man lies pressed behind a mound.

Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and raves. Darknesses blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard.

Not a moment too soon. The darkness goes mad. It surges and rages. Shapes darker than the night rush toward us in giant strides, pass over us, and disappear. The flames from the explosions light up the graveyard.

There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells I try to get a view of the fields. They are a surging sea, daggers of flame from the explosions leap up like fountains. It is impossible for anyone to break through it.

There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells, I try to see the fields. They are a surging sea. Daggers of flame leap up from the explosions like fountains. No one can break through.

The wood vanishes, it is pounded, crushed, torn to pieces. We must stay here in the grave-yard.

The woods vanish. They are pounded, crushed, and torn to pieces. We have to stay here in the graveyard.

The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack. My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does not reassure me: wounds don't hurt till afterwards. I feel the arm all over. It is grazed but sound. Now a crack on the skull, I begin to lose consciousness. Like lightning the thought comes to me: Don't faint, sink down in the black broth and immediately come up to the top again. A splinter slashes into my helmet, but has travelled so far that it does not go through. I wipe the mud out of my eyes. A hole is torn up in front of me. Shells hardly ever land in the same hole twice, I'll get into it. With one bound I fling myself down and lie on the earth as flat as a fish; there it whistles again, quickly I crouch together, claw for cover, feel something on the left, shove in beside it, it gives way, I groan, the earth leaps, the blast thunders in my ears, I creep under the yielding thing, cover myself with it, draw it over me, it is wood, cloth, cover, cover, miserable cover against the whizzing splinters.

The earth explodes in front of us. Clods of dirt rain down. I feel a smack. A fragment tears away my sleeve. I clench my fist. No pain. But that doesn't reassure me. Wounds don't hurt until later. I feel my arm all over. It's scraped but intact. Now a blow to my skull. I begin to lose consciousness. A thought strikes me like lightning: Don't faint. Sink into the black broth and come straight back up to the surface. A fragment slashes into my helmet, but it has traveled too far to break through. I wipe the mud from my eyes. A hole has been torn in the ground in front of me. Shells hardly ever land in the same hole twice, so I'll get into it. I leap into the hole and lie flat on the earth like a fish. There it whistles again. I quickly curl up and claw for cover. I feel something on my left and push in beside it. It gives way. I groan. The earth leaps, and the blast thunders in my ears. I crawl under the yielding thing and pull it over me. It's wood, cloth, cover, cover, miserable cover against the whizzing fragments.

I open my eyes—my fingers grasp a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? I yell to him—no answer—a dead man. My hand gropes farther, splinters of wood—now I remember again that we are lying in the graveyard.

I open my eyes. My fingers grab a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? I yell to him. No answer. He's dead. My hand reaches farther and finds splinters of wood. Now I remember that we're lying in the graveyard.

But the shelling is stronger than everything. It wipes out the sensibilities, I merely crawl still deeper into the coffin, it should protect me, and especially as Death himself lies in it too.

But the shelling is stronger than everything else. It wipes out all feeling. I just crawl deeper into the coffin. It should protect me, especially since Death himself lies in it too.

Before me gapes the shell-hole. I grasp it with my eyes as with fists. With one leap I must be in it. There, I get a smack in the face, a hand clamps on to my shoulder—has the dead man waked up?—The hand shakes me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into the face of Katczinsky, he has his mouth wide open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes nearer, in a momentary lull his voice reaches me: "Gas—Gaas—Gaaas—Pass it on."

The shell hole yawns in front of me. I grip it with my eyes as if with my fists. One leap, and I must be in it. Then something smacks me in the face, and a hand grabs my shoulder. Has the dead man come to life? The hand shakes me, and I turn my head. In a flash of light, I see Katczinsky’s face. His mouth is wide open, and he is yelling. I hear nothing. He shakes me hard and comes closer. In a brief lull, I hear his voice: "Gas, gas, gas. Pass it on."

I grab for my gas-mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think of nothing but this: That fellow there must know: Gaaas—Gaaas——

I reach for my gas mask. Someone is lying a short distance away. I can think of only one thing: That guy has to know. Gaaas, gaaas.

I call, I lean toward him, I swipe at him with the satchel, he doesn't see—once again, again—he merely ducks—it's a recruit—I look at Kat desperately, he has his mask ready—I pull out mine too, my helmet falls to one side, it slips over my face, I reach the man, his satchel is on the side nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head, he understands, I let go and with a jump drop back into the shell-hole.

I call out and lean toward him. I swing the satchel at him, but he doesn't see. I try again and again. He just ducks. He's a recruit. I look desperately at Kat. He has his mask ready. I pull out mine too. My helmet falls to one side, and the mask slips over my face. I reach the man. His satchel is on the side nearest me. I grab the mask and pull it over his head. He understands. I let go and jump back into the shell-hole.

The dull thud of the gas-shells mingles with the crashes of the high explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions, gongs, and metal clappers warning everyone—Gas—Gas—Gaas.

The dull thud of gas shells mixes with the crashes of high explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions. Gongs and metal clappers warn everyone: Gas, gas, gaaas.

Someone plumps down behind me, another. I wipe the goggles of my mask clear of the moist breath. It is Kat, Kropp, and someone else. All four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and breathe as lightly as possible.

Someone drops down behind me, then someone else. I wipe the fog from my mask’s goggles. It is Kat, Kropp, and someone else. All four of us lie there, tense and alert, breathing as lightly as possible.

These first minutes with the mask decide between life and death: is it tightly woven? I remember the awful sights in the hospital: the gas patients who in day-long suffocation cough their burnt lungs up in clots.

The first few minutes with the mask decide whether you live or die. Is it tightly woven? I remember the terrible sights in the hospital: gas patients suffocating for days, coughing up clots of their burned lungs.

Cautiously, the mouth applied to the valve, I breathe. The gas still creeps over the ground and sinks into all hollows. Like a big, soft jellyfish it floats into our shell-hole and lolls there obscenely. I nudge Kat, it is better to crawl out and lie on top than to stay here where the gas collects most. But we don't get as far as that; a second bombardment begins. It is no longer as though the shells roared; it is the earth itself raging.

With my mouth against the valve, I breathe carefully. The gas still creeps along the ground and sinks into every hollow. Like a big, soft jellyfish, it floats into our shell-hole and lies there obscenely. I nudge Kat. It is better to crawl out and lie on top than to stay here, where the gas collects most. But we don’t get that far. A second bombardment begins. It no longer sounds as if the shells are roaring. It is as if the earth itself is raging.

With a crash something black bears down on us. It lands close beside us; a coffin thrown up.

With a crash, something black comes hurtling toward us. It lands close beside us. It is a coffin that has been thrown into the air.

I see Kat move and I crawl across. The coffin has hit the fourth man in our hole on his outstretched arm. He tries to tear off his gas-mask with the other hand. Kropp seizes him just in time, twists the hand sharply behind his back and holds it fast.

I see Kat move and crawl over to him. The coffin has hit the fourth man in our hole on his outstretched arm. He tries to pull off his gas mask with his other hand. Kropp grabs him just in time. He twists the man's hand sharply behind his back and holds it there.

Kat and I proceed to free the wounded arm. The coffin lid is loose and bursts open, we are easily able to pull it off, we toss the corpse out, it slides down to the bottom of the shell-hole, then we try to loosen the under-part.

Kat and I try to free the wounded arm. The coffin lid is loose and bursts open. We can easily pull it off. We toss the corpse out, and it slides to the bottom of the shell hole. Then we try to loosen the bottom of the coffin.

Fortunately the man swoons and Kropp is able to help us. We no longer have to be careful, but work away till the coffin gives with a sigh before the spade that we have dug in under it.

Fortunately, the man faints, and Kropp can help us. We no longer have to be careful, so we keep working. At last, the coffin gives way with a sigh as we pry it up with the spade we dug underneath it.

It has grown lighter. Kat takes a piece of the lid, places it under the shattered arm, and we wrap all our bandages round it. For the moment we can do no more.

It is getting lighter. Kat takes a piece of the lid and puts it under the shattered arm. We wrap all our bandages around it. For now, we can do no more.

Inside the gas-mask my head booms and roars—it is nigh bursting. My lungs are tight, they breathe always the same hot, used-up air, the veins on my temples are swollen, I feel I am suffocating.

Inside my gas mask, my head booms and roars. It feels close to bursting. My lungs are tight. I keep breathing the same hot, stale air. The veins at my temples are swollen. I feel like I’m suffocating.

A grey light filters through to us. I climb out over the edge of the shell-hole. In the dirty twilight lies a leg torn clean off; the boot is quite whole, I take that all in at a glance. Now someone stands up a few yards distant. I polish the windows, in my excitement they are immediately dimmed again, I peer through them, the man there no longer wears his mask.

Gray light filters through to us. I climb over the edge of the shell hole. In the dirty twilight, a leg lies torn clean off. The boot is completely intact. I take it all in at a glance. Now someone stands up a few yards away. I wipe the windows of my mask, but my excitement immediately fogs them again. I peer through them. The man is no longer wearing his mask.

I wait some seconds—he has not collapsed—he looks around and makes a few paces—rattling in my throat I tear my mask off too and fall down, the air streams into me like cold water, my eyes are bursting, the wave sweeps over me and extinguishes me.

I wait a few seconds. He has not collapsed. He looks around and takes a few steps. My throat rattles as I tear off my mask too and fall down. Air streams into me like cold water. My eyes feel as if they are bursting. The wave sweeps over me and extinguishes me.

* *

The shelling has ceased. I drag myself to the crater and tell the others. They take off their masks. We lift up the wounded man, one taking his splintered arm. And so we stumble off hastily.

The shelling has stopped. I drag myself to the crater and tell the others. They take off their masks. We lift the wounded man, with one of us holding his shattered arm. Then we hurry away, stumbling as we go.

The graveyard is a mass of wreckage. Coffins and corpses lie strewn about. They have been killed once again; but each of them that was flung up saved one of us.

The graveyard is a mess of wreckage. Coffins and corpses lie scattered everywhere. The dead have been killed again. But each one thrown up saved one of us.

The hedge is destroyed, the rails of the light railway are torn up and rise stiffly in the air in great arches. Someone lies in front of us. We stop; Kropp goes on alone with the wounded man.

The hedge is destroyed. The light railway tracks have been torn up and stick stiffly into the air in great arches. Someone is lying in front of us. We stop. Kropp goes on alone with the wounded man.

The man on the ground is a recruit. His hip is covered with blood; he is so exhausted that I feel for my water-bottle where I have rum and tea. Kat restrains my hand and stoops over him.

The man on the ground is a recruit. His hip is covered in blood. He is so exhausted that I reach for my water bottle, which contains rum and tea. Kat stops my hand and bends over him.

"Where's it got you, comrade?"

"Where did it get you, comrade?"

His eyes move. He is too weak to answer.

We cut off his trousers carefully. He groans. "Gently, gently, it is much better——"

We carefully cut off his pants. He groans. "Gently, gently, it's much better..."

If he has been hit in the stomach he oughtn't to drink anything. There's no vomiting, that's a good sign. We lay the hip bare. It is one mass of mincemeat and bone splinters. The joint has been hit. This lad won't walk any more.

If he's been shot in the stomach, he shouldn't drink anything. He isn't vomiting, which is a good sign. We uncover his hip. It's a mass of mangled flesh and bone splinters. The joint has been hit. This boy won't walk again.

I wet his temples with a moistened finger and give him a swig. His eyes move again. We see now that the right arm is bleeding as well.

I wet his temples with a damp finger and give him a drink. His eyes move again. We see that his right arm is bleeding too.

Kat spreads out two wads of dressing as wide as possible so that they will cover the wound. I look for something to bind loosely round it. We have nothing more, so I slit up the wounded man's trouser leg still farther in order to use a piece of his underpants as a bandage. But he is wearing none. I now look at him closely. He is the fair-headed boy of a little while ago.

Kat spreads out two pads of dressing as wide as possible so they will cover the wound. I look for something to wrap loosely around the dressing. We have nothing else, so I cut farther up the wounded man’s trouser leg. I want to use a piece of his underwear as a bandage. But he is not wearing any. I look at him closely now. He is the fair-haired boy from a little while ago.

In the meantime Kat has taken a bandage from a dead man's pocket and we carefully bind the wound. I say to the youngster who looks at us fixedly: "We're going for a stretcher now——"

Meanwhile, Kat takes a bandage from a dead man’s pocket, and we carefully bandage the wound. The youngster stares at us. I say to him, "We’re going to get a stretcher now..."

Then he opens his mouth and whispers: "Stay here——"

Then he opens his mouth and whispers: "Stay here..."

"We'll be back again soon," says Kat. "We are only going to get a stretcher for you."

"We'll be back soon," says Kat. "We're just going to get a stretcher for you."

We don't know if he understands. He whimpers like a child and plucks at us: "Don't go away——"

We don't know if he understands. He whimpers like a child and tugs at us: "Don't go away..."

Kat looks around and whispers: "Shouldn't we just take a revolver and put an end to it?"

Kat looks around and whispers: "Shouldn't we just use a revolver to put an end to it?"

The youngster will hardly survive the carrying, and at the most he will only last a few days. What he has gone through so far is nothing to what he's in for till he dies. Now he is numb and feels nothing. In an hour he will become one screaming bundle of intolerable pain. Every day that he can live will be a howling torture. And to whom does it matter whether he has them or not——

The boy will hardly survive being carried, and even if he does, he will last only a few days. What he has been through so far is nothing compared with what awaits him before he dies. Right now he is numb and feels nothing. In an hour he will be screaming in unbearable pain. Every day he stays alive will be a howling torture. And who cares whether he lives those days or not...

I nod. "Yes, Kat, we ought to put him out of his misery."

I nod. "Yes, Kat, we should put him out of his misery."

He stands still a moment. He has made up his mind. We look round—but we are no longer alone. A little group is gathering, from the shell-holes and trenches appear heads.

He stands still for a moment. He has made up his mind. We look around, but we are no longer alone. A small group is gathering. Heads appear from the shell holes and trenches.

We get a stretcher.

Kat shakes his head. "Such a kid——" He repeats it: "Young innocents——"

Kat shakes his head. "Just a kid..." He repeats it: "Young innocents..."

* *

Our losses are less than was to be expected—five killed and eight wounded. It was in fact quite a short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We had merely to throw the earth in on them.

Our losses were lower than expected. Five were killed and eight wounded. The bombardment was actually quite short. Two of our dead lay in the overturned graves. We only had to throw the earth over them.

We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the dressing-station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets, the wounded whimper. It begins to rain.

We head back. We trot silently in single file, one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the medical station. The morning is cloudy. The stretcher bearers fuss over numbers and tickets, and the wounded whimper. It starts to rain.

An hour later we reach our lorries and climb in. There is more room now than there was.

An hour later, we reach our trucks and climb in. There is more room now than before.

The rain becomes heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The rain rattles down, and flows off at the sides in streams. The lorries bump through the holes, and we rock to and fro in a half-sleep. Two men in the front of the lorry have long forked poles. They watch for telephone wires which hang crosswise over the road so densely that they might easily pull our heads off. The two fellows take them at the right moment on their poles and lift them over behind us. We hear their call "Mind—wire—," dip the knee in a half-sleep and straighten up again.

The rain gets heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The rain rattles down and runs off the sides in streams. The trucks bounce through potholes, and we sway back and forth, half asleep. Two men at the front of the truck have long, forked poles. They watch for telephone wires hanging across the road. There are so many wires that they could easily take our heads off. At just the right moment, the two men catch the wires on their poles and lift them over us. We hear them call "Watch out, wire," bend our knees in our half-sleep, then straighten up again.

Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts.

The trucks sway monotonously. The calls come monotonously. The rain falls monotonously. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up at the front. It falls on the body of the young recruit, whose wound is far too big for his hip. It falls on Kemmerich's grave. It falls in our hearts.

An explosion sounds somewhere. We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to vault over the side of the lorry into the ditch by the road.

An explosion sounds somewhere. We flinch, our eyes tense. Our hands are ready to push us over the side of the truck into the roadside ditch.

It goes no farther—only the monotonous cry: "Mind—wire,"—our knees bend—we are again half asleep.

It goes no further. There is only the monotonous cry: "Watch out for the wire." Our knees bend. We are half asleep again.