Chapter 9

30 min

We travel for several days. The first aeroplanes appear in the sky. We roll on past transport lines. Guns, guns. The light railway picks us up. I search for my regiment. No one knows exactly where it lies. Somewhere or other I put up for the night, somewhere or other I receive provisions and a few vague instructions. And so with my pack and my rifle I set out again on the way.

We travel for several days. The first airplanes appear in the sky. We roll past transport lines. Guns, guns. The light railway picks us up. I look for my regiment. No one knows exactly where it is. I spend the night somewhere, and somewhere I get supplies and a few vague instructions. Then I set out again with my pack and rifle.

By the time I come up they are no longer in that devastated place. I hear we have become one of the flying divisions that are pushed in wherever it is hottest. That does not sound cheerful to me. They tell me of heavy losses that we have been having. I inquire after Kat and Albert. No one knows anything of them.

By the time I catch up, they have left that devastated place. I hear we have become one of the flying divisions sent wherever the fighting is fiercest. That does not sound encouraging to me. They tell me we have suffered heavy losses. I ask about Kat and Albert. No one knows anything about them.

I search farther and wander about here and there; it is a wonderful feeling. One night and then another I camp out like a Red Indian. Then at last I get some definite information, and by the afternoon I am able to report to the Orderly Room.

I search farther and wander here and there. It feels wonderful. For two nights, I camp out like a Native American. At last, I get some definite information, and by the afternoon I can report to the Orderly Room.

The sergeant-major detains me there. The company comes back in two days' time. There is no object in sending me up now.

The sergeant-major keeps me there. The company will be back in two days. There is no point in sending me up now.

"What was it like on leave?" he asks, "pretty good, eh?"

"What was your leave like?" he asks. "Pretty good, right?"

"In parts," I say.

"Yes," he sighs, "yes, if a man didn't have to come away again. The second half is always rather messed up by that."

"Yes," he sighs, "yes, if only a man didn't have to leave again. Knowing he has to leave always spoils the second half."

I loaf around until the company comes back in the early morning, grey, dirty, soured, and gloomy. Then I jump up, push in amongst them, my eyes searching. There is Tjaden, there is Müller blowing his nose, and there are Kat and Kropp. We arrange our sacks of straw side by side. I have an uneasy conscience when I look at them, and yet without any good reason. Before we turn in I bring out the rest of the potato-cakes and jam so that they can have some too.

I hang around until the company comes back in the early morning, grey, dirty, bitter, and gloomy. Then I jump up and push my way among them, searching their faces. There is Tjaden, there is Müller blowing his nose, and there are Kat and Kropp. We put our sacks of straw side by side. I feel guilty when I look at them, though I have no good reason to. Before we go to sleep, I bring out the rest of the potato cakes and jam to share with them.

The two outer cakes are mouldy, still it is possible to eat them. I keep those for myself and give the fresh ones to Kat and Kropp.

The two cakes on the outside are moldy, but they are still edible. I keep them for myself and give the fresh ones to Kat and Kropp.

Kat chews and says: "These are from your mother?"

Kat chews and asks: "Are these from your mother?"

I nod.

"Good," says he, "I can tell by the taste."

"Good," he says, "I can tell by the taste."

I could almost weep. I can hardly control myself any longer. But it will soon be all right again back here with Kat and Albert. This is where I belong.

I could almost cry. I can hardly control myself anymore. But things will soon be all right again, back here with Kat and Albert. This is where I belong.

"You've been lucky," whispers Kropp to me before we drop off to sleep, "they say we are going to Russia."

"You've been lucky," Kropp whispers to me before we fall asleep. "They say we're going to Russia."

To Russia. It's not much of a war over there.

To Russia. There's not much of a war over there.

In the distance the front thunders. The walls of the hut rattle.

In the distance, the front thunders. The walls of the hut rattle.

* *

There's a great deal of polishing being done. We are inspected at every turn. Everything that is torn is exchanged for new. I score a spotless new tunic out of it and Kat, of course, an entire outfit. A rumour is going round that there may be peace, but the other story is more likely—that we are bound for Russia. Still, what do we need new things for in Russia? At last it leaks out—the Kaiser is coming to review us. Hence all the inspections.

There’s a lot of polishing going on. We’re inspected at every turn. Everything that’s torn is replaced with something new. I get a spotless new tunic out of it, and Kat, of course, gets a whole new outfit. There’s a rumor that there may be peace, but the other story is more likely: we’re headed for Russia. Still, why would we need new things in Russia? At last, the news leaks out. The Kaiser is coming to review us. That’s why we’re being inspected so often.

For eight whole days one would suppose we were in a base-camp, there is so much drill and fuss. Everyone is peevish and touchy, we do not take kindly to all this polishing, much less to parades. Such things exasperate a soldier more than the front-line.

For eight whole days, there is so much drilling and fuss that you would think we were in a base camp. Everyone is irritable and easily annoyed. We do not like all this polishing, and we like parades even less. Such things annoy a soldier more than the front line does.

At last the moment arrives. We stand up stiff and the Kaiser appears. We are curious to see what he looks like. He stalks along the line, and I am really rather disappointed; judging from his pictures I imagined him to be bigger and more powerfully built, and above all to have a thundering voice.

At last, the moment comes. We stand up stiffly, and the Kaiser appears. We are curious to see what he looks like. He strides along the line, and I am really rather disappointed. From his pictures, I had imagined him bigger and more powerfully built. Above all, I had expected him to have a booming voice.

He distributes Iron Crosses and speaks to this man and to that. Then we march off.

He hands out Iron Crosses and talks to one man, then another. Then we march off.

Afterwards we discuss it. Tjaden says with astonishment:

Afterward, we talk about it. Tjaden says in surprise:

"So that is the All-Highest! And everyone, bar nobody, has to stand up stiff in front of him!" He meditates: "Hindenburg too, he has to stand up stiff to him, eh?"

"So that's the All-Highest! And everyone, without exception, has to stand at attention in front of him!" He thinks for a moment: "Even Hindenburg has to stand at attention for him, huh?"

"Sure," says Kat.

Tjaden hasn't finished yet. He thinks for a while and then asks: "And would a king have to stand up stiff to an emperor?"

Tjaden isn't finished yet. He thinks for a while, then asks: "And would a king have to stand at attention for an emperor?"

None of us is quite sure about it, but we don't suppose so. They are both so exalted that standing strictly to attention is probably not insisted on.

None of us is quite sure, but we don't think so. They are both so important that strict attention is probably not required.

"What rot you do hatch out," says Kat. "The main point is that you have to stand stiff yourself."

"What nonsense you come up with," says Kat. "The main thing is that you have to stand firm yourself."

But Tjaden is quite fascinated. His otherwise prosy fancy is blowing bubbles. "But look," he announces, "I simply can't believe that an emperor has to go to the latrine the same as I have."

But Tjaden is fascinated. His usually unimaginative mind is bubbling with ideas. "But look," he says, "I just can't believe that an emperor has to go to the toilet the same as I do."

"You can bet your boots on it."

"You can count on it."

"Four and a half-wit make seven," says Kat. "You've got a maggot in your brain, Tjaden, just you run along to the latrine quick, and get your head clear, so that you don't talk like a two-year-old."

"Four and a halfwit make seven," says Kat. "You've got a maggot in your brain, Tjaden. Run to the latrine and clear your head, so you don't talk like a two-year-old."

Tjaden disappears.

"But what I would like to know," says Albert, "is whether there would not have been a war if the Kaiser had said No."

"But what I want to know," says Albert, "is whether there would have been a war if the Kaiser had said no."

"I'm sure of this much," I interject, "he was against it from the first."

"I'm sure of this," I say. "He was against it from the start."

"Well, if not him alone, then perhaps if twenty or thirty people in the world had said No."

"Well, if not him alone, then perhaps if twenty or thirty people in the world had said no."

"That's probable," I agree, "but they damned well said Yes."

"That's likely," I agree, "but they damned well said yes."

"It's queer, when one thinks about it," goes on Kropp, "we are here to protect our fatherland. And the French are over there to protect their fatherland. Now, who's in the right?"

"It's strange when you think about it," Kropp continues. "We're here to protect our homeland. And the French are over there to protect their homeland. So who's right?"

"Perhaps both," say I, without believing it.

"Perhaps both," I say, without believing it.

"Yes, well now," pursues Albert, and I see that he means to drive me into a corner, "but our professors and parsons and newspapers say that we are the only ones that are right, and let's hope so;—but the French professors and parsons and newspapers say that the right is on their side, now what about that?"

"Yes, well," Albert continues. I can see he means to corner me. "Our professors, priests, and newspapers say we're the only ones in the right. Let's hope so. But the French professors, priests, and newspapers say they're in the right. What about that?"

"That I don't know," I say, "but whichever way it is there's war all the same and every month more countries coming in."

"I don't know," I say, "but either way, there's still a war. And every month, more countries join it."

Tjaden reappears. He is still quite excited and again joins the conversation, wondering just how a war gets started.

Tjaden returns. He is still very excited and joins the conversation again, wondering how a war starts.

"Mostly by one country badly offending another," answers Albert with a slight air of superiority.

"Mostly when one country seriously offends another," Albert answers, sounding slightly superior.

Then Tjaden pretends to be obtuse. "A country? I don't follow. A mountain in Germany cannot offend a mountain in France. Or a river, or a wood, or a field of wheat."

Then Tjaden pretends not to understand. "A country? I don't understand. A mountain in Germany can't offend a mountain in France. Neither can a river, a forest, or a wheat field."

"Are you really as stupid as that, or are you just pulling my leg?" growls Kropp, "I don't mean that at all. One people offends the other——"

"Are you really that stupid, or are you just kidding me?" Kropp growls. "That's not what I mean at all. One nation offends another..."

"Then I haven't any business here at all," replies Tjaden, "I don't feel myself offended."

"Then I have no business being here at all," replies Tjaden. "I don't feel offended."

"Well, let me tell you," says Albert sourly, "it doesn't apply to tramps like you."

"Well, let me tell you," Albert says bitterly, "it doesn't apply to bums like you."

"Then I can be going home right away," retorts Tjaden, and we all laugh.

"Then I can go home right away," Tjaden replies, and we all laugh.

"Ach, man! he means the people as a whole, the State——" exclaims Müller.

"Oh, man! He means the people as a whole, the state," Müller exclaims.

"State, State"—Tjaden snaps his fingers contemptuously, "Gendarmes, police, taxes, that's your State;—if that's what you are talking about, no thank you."

"State, State." Tjaden snaps his fingers contemptuously. "Gendarmes, police, taxes. That's your State. If that's what you're talking about, no thank you."

"That's right," says Kat, "you've said something for once, Tjaden. State and home-country, there's a big difference."

"That's right," says Kat. "For once, you've said something worthwhile, Tjaden. There's a big difference between the state and your homeland."

"But they go together," insists Kropp, "without the State there wouldn't be any home-country."

"But they go together," Kropp insists. "Without the state, there wouldn't be a homeland."

"True, but just you consider, almost all of us are simple folk. And in France, too, the majority of men are labourers, workmen, or poor clerks. Now just why would a French blacksmith or a French shoemaker want to attack us? No, it is merely the rulers. I had never seen a Frenchman before I came here, and it will be just the same with the majority of Frenchmen as regards us. They weren't asked about it any more than we were."

"True, but think about it. Almost all of us are ordinary people. In France, too, most men are laborers, workers, or poor clerks. Why would a French blacksmith or shoemaker want to attack us? No, it's only the rulers. I had never seen a Frenchman before I came here. And most Frenchmen will never have seen one of us either. They weren't asked about it any more than we were."

"Then what exactly is the war for?" asks Tjaden.

Kat shrugs his shoulders. "There must be some people to whom the war is useful."

Kat shrugs. "The war must be useful to some people."

"Well, I'm not one of them," grins Tjaden.

"Well, I'm not one of them," Tjaden says with a grin.

"Not you, nor anybody else here."

"Not you or anyone else here."

"Who are they then?" persists Tjaden. "It isn't any use to the Kaiser either. He has everything he can want already."

"Then who are they?" Tjaden asks again. "It doesn't do the Kaiser any good either. He already has everything he could want."

"I'm not so sure about that," contradicts Kat, "he has not had a war up till now. And every full-grown emperor requires at least one war, otherwise he wouldn't become famous. You look in your school books."

"I'm not so sure about that," Kat objects. "He hasn't had a war yet. And every grown emperor needs at least one war, or he won't become famous. Just look in your schoolbooks."

"And generals too," adds Detering, "they become famous through war."

"And generals too," Detering adds. "They become famous through war."

"Even more famous than emperors," adds Kat.

"Even more famous than emperors," Kat adds.

"There are other people back behind there who profit by the war, that's certain," growls Detering.

"There are other people back there who make money from the war, that's for sure," growls Detering.

"I think it is more a kind of fever," says Albert. "No one in particular wants it, and then all at once there it is. We didn't want the war, the others say the same thing—and yet half the world is in it all the same."

"I think war is more like a fever," says Albert. "No one in particular wants it, and then suddenly it's there. We didn't want the war. The others say the same thing, but half the world is in it anyway."

"But there are more lies told by the other side than by us," say I; "just think of those pamphlets the prisoners have on them, where it says that we eat Belgian children. The fellows who write that ought to go and hang themselves. They are the real culprits."

"But the other side tells more lies than we do," I say. "Just think of those pamphlets the prisoners carry. They say we eat Belgian children. The men who write that should go and hang themselves. They are the real culprits."

Müller gets up. "Anyway, it is better that the war is here instead of in Germany. Just you take a look at the shell-holes."

Müller gets up. "Anyway, it's better that the war is here instead of in Germany. Just look at the shell holes."

"True," assents Tjaden, "but no war at all would be better still."

"True," Tjaden agrees, "but no war at all would be even better."

He is quite proud of himself because he has for once scored over us volunteers. And his opinion is quite typical here, one meets it time and again, and there is nothing with which one can properly counter it, because that is the limit of their comprehension of the factors involved. The national feeling of the tommy resolves itself into this—here he is. But that is the end of it; everything else from joining up onwards he criticizes from a practical point of view.

He is quite proud of himself because, for once, he has gotten the better of us volunteers. His opinion is typical here. You hear it again and again, and there is no good way to argue against it. That is as much as they can understand of the factors involved. For the Tommy, national feeling comes down to this: he is here. But that is where it ends. He judges everything else, from joining up onward, from a practical point of view.

Albert lies down on the grass and growls angrily: "The best thing is not to talk about the rotten business."

Albert lies down on the grass and growls angrily: "It's best not to talk about the rotten business."

"It won't make any difference, that's sure," agrees Kat.

"It won't make any difference, that's for sure," Kat agrees.

As for the windfall, we have to return almost all the new things and take back our old rags again. The good ones were merely for the inspection.

As for our windfall, we have to return almost all the new things and take back our old rags. The good things were only for the inspection.

* *

Instead of going to Russia, we go up the line again. On the way we pass through a devastated wood with the tree trunks shattered and the ground ploughed up.

Instead of going to Russia, we go back to the front. On the way, we pass through a devastated forest. The tree trunks are shattered, and the ground is torn up.

At several places there are tremendous craters. "Great guns, something's hit that," I say to Kat.

There are huge craters in several places. "Wow, something hit that," I say to Kat.

"Trench mortars," he replies, and then points up at one of the trees.

"Trench mortars," he says, then points up at one of the trees.

In the branches dead men are hanging. A naked soldier is squatting in the fork of a tree, he still has his helmet on, otherwise he is entirely unclad. There is only half of him sitting up there, the top half, the legs are missing.

Dead men hang from the branches. A naked soldier squats in the fork of a tree. He still wears his helmet, but nothing else. Only his upper half is sitting there. His legs are missing.

"What can that mean?" I ask.

"What could that mean?" I ask.

"He's been blown out of his clothes," mutters Tjaden.

"He's been blown out of his clothes," Tjaden mutters.

"It's funny," says Kat, "we have seen that a couple of times now. If a mortar gets you it blows you almost clean out of your clothes. It's the concussion that does it."

"It's funny," says Kat, "we've seen that a couple of times now. If a mortar hits you, it blows you almost completely out of your clothes. The blast does it."

I search around. And so it is. Here hang bits of uniform, and somewhere else is plastered a bloody mess that was once a human limb. Over there lies a body with nothing but a piece of the underpants on one leg and the collar of the tunic around its neck. Otherwise it is naked and the clothes are hanging up in the tree. Both arms are missing as though they had been pulled out. I discover one of them twenty yards off in a shrub.

I look around. And it is true. Bits of uniform hang here, and somewhere else a bloody mess is plastered against something. It was once a human limb. Over there lies a body. All it wears is a piece of underpants on one leg and a tunic collar around its neck. Otherwise it is naked, and its clothes hang in the tree. Both arms are missing, as if they had been pulled out. I find one of them twenty yards away in a bush.

The dead man lies on his face. There, where the arm wounds are, the earth is black with blood. Underfoot the leaves are scratched up as though the man had been kicking.

The dead man lies facedown. The earth is black with blood where his arms are wounded. The leaves underfoot are scuffed up, as though he had been kicking.

"That's no joke, Kat," say I.

"That's no joke, Kat," I say.

"No more is a shell splinter in the belly," he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

"Neither is a piece of shell in the belly," he replies, shrugging.

"But don't get tender-hearted," says Tjaden.

“But don't get sentimental,” says Tjaden.

All this can only have happened a little while ago, the blood is still fresh. As everybody we see there is dead we do not waste any more time, but report the affair at the next stretcher-bearers' post. After all it is not our business to take these stretcher-bearers' jobs away from them.

All this must have happened only a little while ago. The blood is still fresh. Everyone we see there is dead, so we don't waste any more time. Instead, we report what happened at the next stretcher-bearers' post. After all, it's not our job to take the stretcher-bearers' work away from them.

* *

A patrol has to be sent out to discover just how far the enemy position is advanced. Since my leave I feel a certain strange attachment to the other fellows, and so I volunteer to go with them. We agree on a plan, slip out through the wire and then divide and creep forward separately. After a while I find a shallow shell-hole and crawl into it. From here I peer forward.

A patrol has to go out to find out how far forward the enemy position is. Since my leave, I feel a strange attachment to the other men, so I volunteer to go with them. We agree on a plan and slip out through the wire. Then we split up and creep forward separately. After a while, I find a shallow shell hole and crawl into it. From there, I peer ahead.

There is moderate machine-gun fire. It sweeps across from all directions, not very heavy, but always sufficient to make one keep down.

There is moderate machine-gun fire. It sweeps in from all directions. It is not very heavy, but it is always enough to make us keep down.

A parachute star-shell opens out. The ground lies stark in the pale light, and then the darkness shuts down again blacker than ever. In the trenches we were told there were black troops in front of us. That is nasty, it is hard to see them; they are very good at patrolling, too. And oddly enough they are often quite stupid; for instance, both Kat and Kropp were once able to shoot down a black enemy patrol because the fellows in their enthusiasm for cigarettes smoked while they were creeping about. Kat and Albert had simply to aim at the glowing ends of the cigarettes.

A parachute star-shell bursts open. The ground stands out in the pale light. Then darkness falls again, blacker than ever. In the trenches, we were told that Black troops were in front of us. That is bad because they are hard to see. They are very good at patrolling, too. And oddly enough, they are often quite stupid. For example, Kat and Kropp once shot down a Black enemy patrol. The men were so keen on cigarettes that they smoked while sneaking around. Kat and Albert only had to aim at the glowing ends of their cigarettes.

A bomb or something lands close beside me. I have not heard it coming and am terrified. At the same moment a senseless fear takes hold on me. Here I am alone and almost helpless in the dark—perhaps two other eyes have been watching me for a long while from another shell-hole in front of me, and a bomb lies ready to blow me to pieces. I try to pull myself together. It is not my first patrol and not a particularly risky one. But it is the first since my leave, and besides, the lie of the land is still rather strange to me.

A bomb or something lands close beside me. I didn't hear it coming, and I'm terrified. At the same moment, an irrational fear takes hold of me. I'm alone in the dark and almost helpless. Perhaps someone has been watching me for a long time from another shell-hole ahead, with a bomb ready to blow me to pieces. I try to pull myself together. This isn't my first patrol, and it isn't a particularly risky one. But it's my first since my leave, and the terrain is still fairly unfamiliar to me.

I tell myself that my alarm is absurd, that there is probably nothing at all there in the darkness watching me, because otherwise the missile would not have landed so flat.

I tell myself my fear is ridiculous. There's probably nothing at all watching me in the dark. Otherwise, the missile wouldn't have landed so flat.

It is in vain. In whirling confusion my thoughts hum in my brain—I hear the warning voice of my mother, I see the Russians with the flowing beards leaning against the wire fence, I have a bright picture of a canteen with stools, of a cinema in Valenciennes; tormented, terrified, in my imagination I see the grey, impalpable muzzle of a rifle which moves noiselessly before me whichever way I try to turn my head. The sweat breaks out from every pore.

It is no use. My thoughts whirl and buzz in my head. I hear my mother’s warning voice. I see the Russians with their long beards leaning against the wire fence. I see a vivid picture of a canteen with stools and a cinema in Valenciennes. Tormented and terrified, I imagine the gray, untouchable muzzle of a rifle. It moves silently in front of me, no matter which way I turn my head. Sweat pours from every pore.

I still continue to lie in my shallow bowl. I look at the time; only a few minutes have passed. My forehead is wet, the sockets of my eyes are damp, my hands tremble, and I am panting softly. It is nothing but an awful spasm of fear, a simple animal fear of poking out my head and crawling on farther.

I stay lying in the shallow hollow. I check the time. Only a few minutes have passed. My forehead is wet, and the skin around my eyes is damp. My hands tremble, and I pant softly. It is nothing but a terrible spasm of fear, a simple animal fear of lifting my head and crawling farther.

All my efforts subside like froth into the one desire to be able just to stay lying there. My limbs are glued to the earth. I make a vain attempt;—they refuse to come away. I press myself down on the earth, I cannot go forward, I make up my mind to stay lying there.

All my efforts fade like foam, leaving me with only one desire: to stay lying there. My limbs are glued to the ground. I try to move them, but they won't come loose. I press myself against the ground. I can't go forward, so I decide to stay lying there.

But immediately the wave floods over me anew, a mingled sense of shame, of remorse, and yet at the same time of security. I raise myself up a little to take a look around.

But immediately, the wave washes over me again. I feel shame and remorse, yet also a sense of security. I lift myself up a little to look around.

My eyes burn with staring into the dark. A star-shell goes up;—I duck down again.

My eyes burn from staring into the dark. A flare goes up, and I duck down again.

I wage a wild and senseless fight, I want to get out of the hollow and yet slide back into it again, I say "You must, it is your comrades, it is not any idiotic command," and again: "What does it matter to me, I have only one life to lose——"

I struggle wildly and without sense. I want to get out of the hollow, but I slide back into it. I tell myself, "You have to. It is your comrades, not some stupid order." Then I think, "What does it matter to me? I have only one life to lose."

That is the result of all this leave, I reproach myself bitterly. But I cannot convince myself, I become terribly faint. I raise myself slowly and reach forward with my arms, dragging my body after me and then lie on the edge of the shell-hole, half in and half out.

This is what comes of all that time on leave, I tell myself bitterly. But I cannot convince myself, and I feel terribly faint. I slowly lift myself and reach forward with my arms, dragging my body after me. Then I lie on the edge of the shell-hole, half in and half out.

There I hear sounds and drop back. Suspicious sounds can be detected clearly despite the noise of the artillery-fire. I listen; the sound is behind me. They are our people moving along the trench. Now I hear muffled voices. To judge by the tone that might be Kat talking.

There I hear sounds and fall back. I can hear suspicious sounds clearly despite the artillery fire. I listen. The sounds are behind me. Our people are moving along the trench. Now I hear muffled voices. From the sound of it, Kat might be talking.

At once a new warmth flows through me. These voices, these few quiet words, these footsteps in the trench behind me recall me at a bound from the terrible loneliness and fear of death by which I had been almost destroyed. They are more to me than life, these voices, they are more than motherliness and more than fear; they are the strongest, most comforting thing there is anywhere: they are the voices of my comrades.

At once, a new warmth flows through me. These voices, these few quiet words, and these footsteps in the trench behind me bring me back in an instant. They bring me back from the terrible loneliness and fear of death that had almost destroyed me. These voices mean more to me than life. They mean more than a mother’s care and more than fear. They are the strongest, most comforting thing anywhere: they are the voices of my comrades.

I am no longer a shuddering speck of existence, alone in the darkness;—I belong to them and they to me, we all share the same fear and the same life, we are nearer than lovers, in a simpler, a harder way; I could bury my face in them, in these voices, these words that have saved me and will stand by me.

I am no longer a trembling speck of life, alone in the dark. I belong to them, and they belong to me. We all share the same fear and the same life. We are closer than lovers, in a simpler, harder way. I could bury my face in them, in these voices and words that have saved me and will stand by me.

* *

Cautiously I glide out over the edge and snake my way forward. I shuffle along on all fours a bit farther, I keep track of my bearings, look around me and observe the distribution of the gunfire so as to be able to find my way back. Then I try to get in touch with the others.

Carefully, I slide over the edge and snake forward. I crawl a little farther on all fours. I keep track of my direction and look around. I watch where the gunfire is coming from so I can find my way back. Then I try to make contact with the others.

I am still afraid, but it is an intelligent fear, an extraordinarily heightened caution. The night is windy and shadows flit hither and thither in the flicker of the gunfire. It reveals too little and too much. Often I peer ahead, but always for nothing. Thus I advance a long way and then turn back in a wide curve. I have not established touch with the others. Every yard nearer our trench fills me with confidence;—and with haste, too. It would be bad to get lost now.

I am still afraid, but it is a sensible fear, an extraordinarily heightened caution. The night is windy, and shadows dart back and forth in the flickering gunfire. The gunfire reveals too little and too much. I often peer ahead, but I never see anything. I move a long way forward like this, then turn back in a wide curve. I have not made contact with the others. Every yard closer to our trench makes me more confident, and more hurried too. It would be bad to get lost now.

Then a new fear lays hold of me. I can no longer remember the direction. Quiet, I squat in a shell-hole and try to locate myself. More than once it has happened that some fellow has jumped joyfully into a trench only then to discover that it was the wrong one.

Then a new fear grips me. I can no longer remember which way to go. I crouch quietly in a shell hole and try to figure out where I am. More than once, a man has jumped joyfully into a trench, only to discover it was the wrong one.

After a little time I listen again, but still I am not sure. The confusion of shell-holes now seems so bewildering that I can no longer tell in my agitation which way I should go. Perhaps I am crawling parallel to the lines, and that might go on for ever. So I crawl round once again in a wide curve.

After a while, I listen again, but I’m still not sure. The maze of shell holes is so confusing that, in my panic, I can no longer tell which way to go. Perhaps I’m crawling parallel to the lines, and I could go on like that forever. So I turn again, crawling in a wide curve.

These damned rockets! They seem to burn for an hour, and a man cannot make the least movement without bringing the bullets whistling round.

These damned rockets! They seem to burn for an hour. A man can't make the slightest move without bullets whistling around him.

But there is nothing for it, I must get out. Falteringly I work my way farther, I move off over the ground like a crab and rip my hands sorely on the jagged splinters, as sharp as razor blades. Often I think that the sky is becoming lighter on the horizon, but it may be merely my imagination. Then gradually I realize that to crawl in the right direction is a matter of life or death.

But there is no choice. I have to get out. Hesitantly, I make my way farther. I crawl over the ground like a crab, tearing my hands on jagged splinters as sharp as razor blades. I often think the sky is getting lighter on the horizon, but I may be imagining it. Then I gradually realize that crawling in the right direction is a matter of life or death.

A shell crashes. Almost immediately two others. And then it begins in earnest. A bombardment. Machine-guns rattle. Now there is nothing for it but to stay lying low. Apparently an attack is coming. Everywhere the rockets shoot up. Unceasing.

A shell crashes. Almost immediately, two more follow. Then the bombardment begins in earnest. Machine guns rattle. Now all we can do is stay low. Apparently, an attack is coming. Rockets shoot up everywhere. They never stop.

I lie huddled in a large shell-hole, my legs in the water up to the belly. When the attack starts I will let myself fall into the water, with my face as deep in the mud as I can keep it without suffocating. I must pretend to be dead.

I lie curled up in a large shell hole, with water reaching my belly. When the attack starts, I will drop into the water. I will press my face as deep into the mud as I can without suffocating. I must pretend to be dead.

Suddenly I hear the barrage lift. At once I slip down into the water, my helmet on the nape of my neck and my mouth just clear so that I can get a breath of air.

Suddenly, I hear the shelling move farther away. I immediately slip down into the water, with my helmet pushed back against my neck. I keep my mouth just above the water so I can breathe.

I lie motionless;—somewhere something clanks, it stamps and stumbles nearer—all my nerves become taut and icy. It clatters over me and away, the first wave has passed. I have but this one shattering thought: What will you do if someone jumps into your shell-hole?— Swiftly I pull out my little dagger, grasp it fast and bury it in my hand once again under the mud. If anyone jumps in here I will go for him. It hammers in my forehead; at once, stab him clean through the throat, so that he cannot call out; that's the only way; he will be just as frightened as I am, when in terror we fall upon one another, then I must be first.

I lie still. Somewhere, something clanks, stamping and stumbling closer. All my nerves tighten and turn icy. It clatters over me and moves away. The first wave has passed. I have only one shattering thought: What will you do if someone jumps into your shell hole? I quickly pull out my little dagger, grip it tightly, and bury my hand in the mud again. If anyone jumps in here, I will attack him. The thought pounds in my head: Stab him straight through the throat at once, so he cannot call out. That is the only way. He will be just as frightened as I am when we fall on each other in terror. Then I must be first.

Now our batteries are firing. A shell lands near me. That makes me savage with fury, all it needs now is to be killed by our own shells; I curse and grind my teeth in the mud; it is a raving frenzy; in the end all I can do is groan and pray.

Now our artillery is firing. A shell lands near me. It fills me with fury. All I need now is to be killed by our own shells. I curse and grind my teeth in the mud. I am in a wild frenzy. In the end, all I can do is groan and pray.

The crash of the shells bursts in my ears. If our fellows make a counter-raid I will be saved. I press my head against the earth and listen to the muffled thunder, like the explosions of quarrying—and raise it again to listen for the sounds on top.

The shells crash in my ears. If our men launch a counterattack, I’ll be saved. I press my head against the ground and listen to the muffled thunder, like explosions in a quarry. Then I raise my head again to listen for sounds above.

The machine-guns rattle. I know our barbed wire entanglements are strong and almost undamaged;—parts of them are charged with a powerful electric current. The rifle fire increases. They have not broken through; they have to retreat.

The machine guns rattle. I know our barbed wire defenses are strong and almost undamaged. Parts of the wire carry a powerful electric current. The rifle fire grows louder. They have not broken through. They have to retreat.

I sink down again, huddled, strained to the uttermost. The banging, the creeping, the clanging becomes audible. One single cry yelling amongst it all. They are raked with fire, the attack is repulsed.

I sink down again, huddled and stretched to my limit. I can hear banging, creeping, and clanging. A single cry rings out amid it all. They are swept by gunfire, and the attack is driven back.

* *

Already it has become somewhat lighter. Steps hasten over me. The first. Gone. Again, another. The rattle of machine-guns becomes an unbroken chain. Just as I am about to turn round a little, something heavy stumbles, and with a crash a body falls over me into the shell-hole, slips down, and lies across me——

It is already getting a little lighter. Footsteps rush past above me. The first. Gone. Then another. The rattle of machine guns becomes continuous. Just as I am about to turn a little, something heavy stumbles. A body crashes over me into the shell hole, slides down, and lies across me.

I do not think at all, I make no decision—I strike madly home, and feel only how the body suddenly convulses, then becomes limp, and collapses. When I recover myself, my hand is sticky and wet.

I don’t think at all. I make no decision. I strike wildly and feel the body suddenly convulse, go limp, and collapse. When I come to my senses, my hand is sticky and wet.

The man gurgles. It sounds to me as though he bellows, every gasping breath is like a cry, a thunder—but it is only my heart pounding. I want to stop his mouth, stuff it with earth, stab him again, he must be quiet, he is betraying me; now at last I regain control of myself, but have suddenly become so feeble that I cannot any more lift my hand against him.

The man gurgles. To me, he sounds as if he is bellowing. Every gasping breath sounds like a cry, like thunder, but it is only my heart pounding. I want to cover his mouth, stuff it with earth, stab him again. He must be quiet. He is giving me away. At last I regain control of myself, but suddenly I am too weak to raise my hand against him again.

So I crawl away to the farthest corner and stay there, my eyes glued on him, my hand grasping the knife—ready, if he stirs, to spring at him again. But he won't do so any more, I can hear that already in his gurgling.

So I crawl away to the farthest corner and stay there, watching him closely and gripping the knife. I am ready to spring at him again if he moves. But he won't move again. I can already hear that in his gurgling.

I can see him indistinctly. I have but one desire, to get away. If it is not soon it will be too light; it will be difficult enough now. Then as I try to raise up my head I see it is impossible already. The machine-gun fire so sweeps the ground that I would be shot through and through before I could make one jump.

I can barely see him. All I want is to get away. If I don't leave soon, it will be too light. It will be hard enough to escape even now. Then, as I try to lift my head, I see that escape is already impossible. Machine-gun fire is sweeping the ground. I would be shot through and through before I could make a single jump.

I test it once with my helmet, which I take off and hold up to find out the level of the shots. The next moment it is knocked out of my hand by a bullet. The fire is sweeping very low over the ground. I am not far enough from the enemy line to escape being picked off by one of the snipers if I attempt to get away.

I test it once with my helmet. I take it off and hold it up to see how high the bullets are flying. A moment later, a bullet knocks the helmet out of my hand. The gunfire is sweeping very low over the ground. I am still too close to the enemy line. If I try to get away, one of the snipers could pick me off.

The light increases. Burning I wait for our attack. My hands are white at the knuckles, I clench them so tightly in my longing for the fire to cease so that my comrades may come.

The light grows brighter. Burning with impatience, I wait for our attack. My knuckles are white from clenching my hands so tightly. I long for the firing to stop so that my comrades can come.

Minute after minute trickles away. I dare not look again at the dark figure in the shell-hole. With an effort I look past it and wait, wait. The bullets hiss, they make a steel net, never ceasing, never ceasing.

Minute after minute slips by. I don't dare look again at the dark figure in the shell hole. I force myself to look past the figure and wait, wait. The bullets hiss, forming a steel net, never stopping, never stopping.

Then I notice my bloody hand and suddenly feel nauseated. I take some earth and rub the skin with it, now my hand is muddy and the blood cannot be seen any more.

Then I notice my bloody hand and suddenly feel sick. I rub some dirt on my skin. Now my hand is muddy, and the blood no longer shows.

The fire does not diminish. It is equally heavy from both sides. Our fellows have probably given me up for lost long ago.

The gunfire does not let up. It is just as heavy from both sides. Our men probably gave me up for lost long ago.

* *

It is early morning, clear and grey. The gurgling continues, I stop my ears, but soon take my fingers away again, because then I cannot hear the other sound.

It is early morning, clear and gray. The gurgling continues. I plug my ears, but soon take my fingers out again because I cannot hear the other sound.

The figure opposite me moves. I shrink together and involuntarily look at it. Then my eyes remain glued to it. A man with a small pointed beard lies there, his head is fallen to one side, one arm is half-bent, his head rests helplessly upon it. The other hand lies on his chest, it is bloody.

The figure opposite me moves. I recoil and look at it without thinking. Then I can't take my eyes off it. A man with a small pointed beard lies there. His head has fallen to one side. One arm is half-bent, and his head rests helplessly on it. His other hand lies on his chest, covered in blood.

He is dead, I say to myself, he must be dead, he doesn't feel anything any more; it is only the body that is gurgling there. Then the head tries to raise itself, for a moment the groaning becomes louder, his forehead sinks back upon his arm. The man is not dead, he is dying, but he is not dead. I drag myself toward him, hesitate, support myself on my hands, creep a bit farther, wait, again a terrible journey of three yards, a long, a terrible journey. At last I am beside him.

He is dead, I tell myself. He must be dead. He cannot feel anything anymore. It is only his body gurgling there. Then he tries to lift his head. For a moment, his groaning grows louder. His forehead falls back onto his arm. The man is not dead. He is dying, but he is not dead. I drag myself toward him, hesitate, and prop myself up on my hands. I crawl a little farther and wait. Then another terrible journey of three yards, a long, terrible journey. At last I am beside him.

Then he opens his eyes. He must have heard me and gazes at me with a look of utter terror. The body lies still, but in the eyes there is such an extraordinary expression of flight that for a moment I think they have power enough to carry the body off with them. Hundreds of miles away with one bound. The body is still, perfectly still, without sound, the gurgle has ceased, but the eyes cry out, yell, all the life is gathered together in them for one tremendous effort to flee, gathered together there in a dreadful terror of death, of me.

Then he opens his eyes. He must have heard me, and he stares at me in utter terror. His body lies still, but his eyes show such an extraordinary urge to escape. For a moment, I think his eyes could carry his body away with them. Hundreds of miles away in a single bound. His body is still, perfectly still and silent. The gurgling has stopped, but his eyes cry out, they scream. All his life is gathered in his eyes for one tremendous effort to escape. It is gathered there in a dreadful terror of death, of me.

My legs give way and I drop on my elbows. "No, no," I whisper.

My legs give out, and I fall onto my elbows. "No, no," I whisper.

The eyes follow me. I am powerless to move so long as they are there.

The eyes follow me. I can't move as long as they are there.

Then his hand slips slowly from his breast, only a little bit, it sinks just a few inches, but this movement breaks the power of the eyes. I bend forward, shake my head and whisper: "No, no, no," I raise one hand, I must show him that I want to help him, I stroke his forehead.

Then his hand slowly slips down from his chest. It moves only a little, just a few inches, but the movement breaks the power of his eyes. I lean forward, shake my head, and whisper, "No, no, no." I raise one hand. I have to show him that I want to help him. I stroke his forehead.

The eyes shrink back as the hand comes, then they lose their stare, the eyelids droop lower, the tension is past. I open his collar and place his head more comfortably upright.

The eyes shrink back as the hand approaches. Then they lose their stare, the eyelids droop lower, and the tension passes. I open his collar and prop his head up more comfortably.

His mouth stands half open, it tries to form words. The lips are dry. My water bottle is not there. I have not brought it with me. But there is water in the mud, down at the bottom of the crater. I climb down, take out my handkerchief, spread it out, push it under and scoop up the yellow water that strains through into the hollow of my hand.

His mouth is half open, trying to form words. His lips are dry. My water bottle is not there. I did not bring it with me. But there is water in the mud at the bottom of the crater. I climb down and take out my handkerchief. I spread it out and push it under the water. Then I scoop up the yellow water that filters through into my cupped hand.

He gulps it down. I fetch some more. Then I unbutton his tunic in order to bandage him if it is possible. In any case I must do it, so that if the fellows over there capture me they will see that I wanted to help him, and so will not shoot me. He tries to resist, but his hand is too feeble. The shirt is stuck and will not come away, it is buttoned at the back. So there is nothing for it but to cut it off.

He gulps it down. I get some more. Then I unbutton his tunic so I can bandage him, if possible. I have to try anyway. If the men over there capture me, they will see that I wanted to help him. Then they will not shoot me. He tries to resist, but his hand is too weak. His shirt is stuck and will not come off. It buttons at the back. So I have no choice but to cut it off.

I look for the knife and find it again. But when I begin to cut the shirt the eyes open once more and the cry is in them again and the demented expression, so that I must close them, press them shut and whisper: "I want to help you, Comrade, camerade, camerade, camerade——" eagerly repeating the word, to make him understand.

I look for the knife and find it again. But when I start to cut his shirt, his eyes open again. The cry is in them again, along with that crazed look. So I have to close his eyes and press them shut. I whisper: "I want to help you, Comrade, camerade, camerade, camerade..." I eagerly repeat the word to make him understand.

There are three stabs. My field dressing covers them, the blood runs out under it, I press it tighter; there; he groans.

There are three stab wounds. My field dressing covers them, but blood runs out from under it. I press it tighter. There. He groans.

That is all I can do. Now we must wait, wait.

That’s all I can do. Now we have to wait, wait.

* *

These hours.... The gurgling starts again—but how slowly a man dies! For this I know—he cannot be saved. Indeed, I have tried to tell myself that he will be, but at noon this pretence breaks down and melts before his groans. If only I had not lost my revolver crawling about, I would shoot him. Stab him I cannot.

These hours.... The gurgling starts again. But how slowly a man dies! I know he cannot be saved. I have tried to tell myself he will be saved, but by noon his groans make it impossible to pretend. If only I had not lost my revolver while crawling around, I would shoot him. I cannot stab him.

By noon I am groping on the outer limits of reason. Hunger devours me, I could almost weep for something to eat, I cannot struggle against it. Again and again I fetch water for the dying man and drink some myself.

By noon, I am on the edge of losing my mind. Hunger consumes me. I could almost cry for something to eat. I cannot fight the hunger. Again and again, I bring water to the dying man and drink some myself.

This is the first man I have killed with my hands, whom I can see close at hand, whose death is my doing. Kat and Kropp and Müller have experienced it already, when they have hit someone; it happens to many, in hand-to-hand fighting especially—

This is the first man I have killed with my own hands, close enough to see. His death is my doing. Kat, Kropp, and Müller have already experienced this when they hit someone. It happens to many soldiers, especially in hand-to-hand fighting.

But every gasp lays my heart bare. This dying man has time with him, he has an invisible dagger with which he stabs me: Time and my thoughts.

But every gasp exposes my heart. Time is on the dying man’s side. He has an invisible dagger he uses to stab me: time and my thoughts.

I would give much if he would but stay alive. It is hard to lie here and to have to see and hear him.

I would give a lot if only he would stay alive. It is hard to lie here and have to see and hear him.

In the afternoon, about three, he is dead.

By about three in the afternoon, he is dead.

I breathe freely again. But only for a short time. Soon the silence is more unbearable than the groans. I wish the gurgling were there again, gasping, hoarse, now whistling softly and again hoarse and loud.

I can breathe freely again, but only for a short time. Soon the silence is harder to bear than the groans. I wish I could hear the gurgling again, gasping and hoarse, sometimes whistling softly, then hoarse and loud again.

It is mad, what I do. But I must do something. I prop the dead man up again so that he lies comfortably although he feels nothing any more. I close his eyes. They are brown, his hair is black and a bit curly at the sides.

What I’m doing is crazy. But I have to do something. I prop the dead man up again so he lies comfortably, even though he can’t feel anything anymore. I close his eyes. They are brown. His hair is black and a little curly at the sides.

The mouth is full and soft beneath his moustache; the nose is slightly arched, the skin brownish; it is now not so pale as it was before, when he was still alive. For a moment the face seems almost healthy;—then it collapses suddenly into the strange face of the dead that I have so often seen, strange faces, all alike.

His mouth is full and soft beneath his mustache. His nose is slightly arched, and his skin is brownish. It is not as pale now as it was when he was still alive. For a moment, his face looks almost healthy. Then it suddenly collapses into the strange face of the dead, a face I have seen so often. Those strange faces all look alike.

No doubt his wife still thinks of him; she does not know what has happened. He looks as if he would often have written to her;—she will still be getting mail from him—To-morrow, in a week's time—perhaps even a stray letter a month hence. She will read it, and in it he will be speaking to her.

No doubt his wife still thinks of him. She does not know what has happened. He looks as if he would have written to her often. She will still be getting letters from him tomorrow, in a week, perhaps even a stray letter a month from now. She will read it, and in the letter he will be speaking to her.

My state is getting worse, I can no longer control my thoughts. What would his wife look like? Like the little brunette on the other side of the canal? Does she belong to me now? Perhaps by this act she becomes mine. I wish Kantorek were sitting here beside me. If my mother could see me——. The dead man might have had thirty more years of life if only I had impressed the way back to our trench more sharply on my memory. If only he had run two yards farther to the left, he might now be sitting in the trench over there and writing a fresh letter to his wife.

I’m getting worse. I can no longer control my thoughts. What would his wife look like? Like the little brunette on the other side of the canal? Does his wife belong to me now? Perhaps this act makes her mine. I wish Kantorek were sitting here beside me. If my mother could see me... The dead man might have lived another thirty years if only I had remembered the way back to our trench more clearly. If only he had run two yards farther to the left, he might now be sitting in the trench over there, writing a new letter to his wife.

But I will get no further that way; for that is the fate of all of us: if Kemmerich's leg had been six inches to the right; if Haie Westhus had bent his back three inches further forward——

But I won't get anywhere thinking that way, because that is the fate of all of us. If Kemmerich's leg had been six inches to the right, if Haie Westhus had bent his back three inches farther forward...

* *

The silence spreads. I talk and must talk. So I speak to him and say to him: "Comrade, I did not want to kill you. If you jumped in here again, I would not do it, if you would be sensible too. But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are just poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—. Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy? If we threw away these rifles and this uniform you could be my brother just like Kat and Albert. Take twenty years of my life, comrade, and stand up—take more, for I do not know what I can even attempt to do with it now."

The silence spreads. I talk because I have to. So I speak to him: "Comrade, I didn't want to kill you. If you jumped in here again, I wouldn't do it, if you were sensible too. But before, you were only an idea to me, an abstraction in my mind that called for a certain response. That abstraction was what I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see that you're a man like me. I thought of your hand grenades, your bayonet, your rifle. Now I see your wife, your face, and what we share. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you're just poor devils like us? Your mothers are just as worried as ours. We have the same fear of death, and we die and suffer the same way. Forgive me, comrade. How could you be my enemy? If we threw away these rifles and this uniform, you could be my brother, just like Kat and Albert. Take twenty years of my life, comrade, and stand up. Take more, because I don't even know what I can try to do with my life now."

It is quiet, the front is still except for the crackle of rifle fire. The bullets rain over, they are not fired haphazard, but shrewdly aimed from all sides. I cannot get out.

It is quiet. The front is still except for the crackle of rifle fire. Bullets rain down. They are not fired at random, but carefully aimed from all sides. I cannot get out.

"I will write to your wife," I say hastily to the dead man, "I will write to her, she must hear it from me, I will tell her everything I have told you, she shall not suffer, I will help her, and your parents too, and your child——"

"I'll write to your wife," I say quickly to the dead man. "I'll write to her. She must hear it from me. I'll tell her everything I've told you. She won't suffer. I'll help her, and your parents too, and your child..."

His tunic is half open. The pocket-book is easy to find. But I hesitate to open it. In it is the book with his name. So long as I do not know his name perhaps I may still forget him, time will obliterate it, this picture. But his name, it is a nail that will be hammered into me and never come out again. It has the power to recall this for ever, it will always come back and stand before me.

His tunic is half open. The pocketbook is easy to find. But I hesitate to open it. Inside is the book with his name. As long as I don't know his name, perhaps I can still forget him. Time will erase this picture. But his name is a nail that will be hammered into me and never come out again. His name has the power to bring this back forever. It will always come back and stand before me.

Irresolutely I take the wallet in my hand. It slips out of my hand and falls open. Some pictures and letters drop out. I gather them up and want to put them back again, but the strain I am under, the uncertainty, the hunger, the danger, these hours with the dead man have confused me, I want to hasten the relief, to intensify and to end the torture, as one strikes an unendurably painful hand against the trunk of a tree, regardless of everything.

Hesitantly, I pick up the wallet. It slips from my hand and falls open. Some pictures and letters fall out. I gather them up and want to put them back. But the strain, the uncertainty, the hunger, the danger, and these hours with the dead man have left me confused. I want relief to come sooner, to intensify the torture and bring it to an end. It is like striking an unbearably painful hand against a tree trunk, regardless of everything else.

There are portraits of a woman and a little girl, small amateur photographs taken against an ivy-clad wall. Along with them are letters. I take them out and try to read them. Most of it I do not understand, it is so hard to decipher and I know scarcely any French. But each word I translate pierces me like a shot in the chest;—like a stab in the chest.

There are small amateur photographs of a woman and a little girl, taken against a wall covered in ivy. There are letters with them. I take the letters out and try to read them. I don’t understand most of what they say. The writing is hard to read, and I know hardly any French. But each word I translate pierces me like a shot in the chest, like a stab in the chest.

My brain is taxed beyond endurance. But I realize this much, that I will never dare to write to these people as I intended. Impossible. I look at the portraits once more; they are clearly not rich people. I might send them money anonymously if I earn anything later on. I seize upon that, it is at least something to hold on to. This dead man is bound up with my life, therefore I must do everything, promise everything, in order to save myself; I swear blindly that I mean to live only for his sake and his family, with wet lips I try to placate him—and deep down in me lies the hope that I may buy myself off in this way and perhaps even yet get out of this; it is a little stratagem: if only I am allowed to escape, then I will see to it. So I open the book and read slowly:—Gerard Duval, compositor.

My mind is strained beyond endurance. But I realize one thing: I will never dare write to these people as I intended. It’s impossible. I look at the portraits again. They are clearly not rich people. If I earn any money later, I might send them some anonymously. I cling to that idea. At least it gives me something to hold on to. This dead man is bound up with my life. So I must do everything and promise everything to save myself. I swear blindly that I intend to live only for him and his family. With wet lips, I try to appease him. Deep down, I hope I can buy my way out of this and perhaps still escape. It is a little trick: if only I am allowed to escape, then I will see to it. So I open the book and read slowly: Gerard Duval, typesetter.

With the dead man's pencil I write the address on an envelope, then swiftly thrust everything back into his tunic.

I use the dead man's pencil to write the address on an envelope. Then I quickly put everything back in his tunic.

I have killed the printer, Gerard Duval. I must be a printer, I think confusedly, be a printer, printer——

I have killed Gerard Duval, the printer. I must be a printer, I think in confusion. Be a printer, printer...

* *

By afternoon I am calmer. My fear was groundless. The name troubles me no more. The madness passes. "Comrade," I say to the dead man, but I say it calmly, "To-day you, to-morrow me. But if I come out of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life—and from me—? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again."

By afternoon, I am calmer. My fear was unfounded. The name no longer troubles me. The madness passes. "Comrade," I say calmly to the dead man, "today you, tomorrow me. But if I survive, comrade, I will fight against what has struck us both down. It took your life. And from me? Life too. I promise you, comrade. It will never happen again."

The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me, there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more.

The sun is low in the sky. I am dazed with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is a blur, and there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I doze off and do not realize at first that evening is coming. Twilight falls. It seems to come quickly now. One more hour. If it were summer, it would be three more hours. One more hour.

Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you——" but already I know that I shall not do so.

Suddenly I start to tremble. Something might happen in the meantime. I no longer think of the dead man. He means nothing to me now. My desire to live flares up again in an instant, sweeping aside everything that has filled my thoughts. Now, just to ward off bad luck, I babble mechanically: "I will do everything, everything I promised you." But I already know I will not.

Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me.

Suddenly, I realize my own comrades may shoot at me as I creep closer. They don't know I'm coming. I'll call out as soon as I can so they'll recognize me. I'll stay in front of the trench until they answer me.

The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul—Quiet, Paul, quiet—then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power.

The first star. The front is still quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "Don't do anything foolish now, Paul. Stay quiet, Paul, quiet. Then you'll be saved, Paul." When I use my first name, it feels as if someone else is speaking to me. That makes it more powerful.

The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward.

It grows darker. My excitement fades, and I wait carefully until the first flare goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Night is falling ahead of me, and the field glows pale. I fix my eyes on a shell hole. The moment the light fades, I scramble into it. I feel my way farther, jump into the next hole, duck down, and scramble on.

I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name: "Paul—Paul——"

I move closer. By the light of a flare, I see something move in the wire. Then it stiffens and lies still. The next time I see it, yes, I can tell they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call out. Immediately, someone calls back my name: "Paul, Paul!"

I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me.

I call out again in reply. Kat and Albert have come out with a stretcher to look for me.

"Are you wounded?"

"Are you hurt?"

"No, no——"

"No, no..."

We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back.

We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. I briefly tell them what happened. It is nothing new. It happens quite often. The only unusual part was the night attack. In Russia, Kat once lay behind enemy lines for two days before he could make his way back.

I do not mention the dead printer.

I don't mention the dead printer.

But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for."

But by the next morning, I can't keep it to myself anymore. I have to tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me down. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That's what you're here for."

I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole.

I listen to them and feel comforted and reassured by their presence. What I said out there in the shell-hole was just foolish nonsense.

"Look there for instance," points Kat.

"Look over there, for example," says Kat, pointing.

On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out.

Some snipers stand on the fire-step. They rest their scoped rifles on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Now and then a shot cracks out.

Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits.

Then we hear someone shout: "That one hit home!" "Did you see how he jumped into the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns around proudly and marks down his point. He leads today’s shooting list with three definite hits.

"What do you say to that?" asks Kat.

I nod.

"If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert.

"If he keeps that up, he'll get a little colored bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert.

"Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat.

"Or rather, he'll soon be made acting sergeant major," says Kat.

We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say.

We look at each other. "I wouldn't do it," I say.

"All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now."

"Still," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it right now."

Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro.

Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle moves back and forth as he searches.

"You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert.

"You don't need to lose any more sleep over your situation," Albert says with a nod.

And now I hardly understand it myself any more.

And now I hardly understand it myself anymore.

"It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war."

"It was only because I had to lie there with him for so long," I say. "After all, war is war."

Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry.

Oellrich's rifle fires with a sharp, dry crack.