Chapter 6

There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of fir, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred.

There are rumors of an offensive. We go to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way, we pass a schoolhouse hit by shells. A high double wall of brand-new, unpolished yellow coffins is stacked against its longer side. The coffins still smell of fir, pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred.

"That's a good preparation for the offensive," says Müller astonished.

"That's good preparation for the offensive," Müller says, astonished.

"They're for us," growls Detering.

"They're for us," growls Detering.

"Don't talk rot," says Kat to him angrily.

"Don't talk nonsense," Kat says to him angrily.

"You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin," grins Tjaden, "they'll slip you a water-proof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase."

"Be thankful if you even get a coffin," Tjaden says with a grin. "They'll give you a waterproof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a corpse."

The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?—The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing.

The others make unpleasant jokes too, but what else can a man do? The coffins are really for us. The organization outdoes itself at that kind of thing.

Ahead of us everything is simmering. The first night we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet we can hear the transports behind the enemy lines rolling ceaselessly until dawn. Kat says they do not go back but are bringing up troops—troops, munitions, and shells.

Everything ahead of us is simmering. On the first night, we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet, we can hear the transports rolling behind enemy lines without stopping until dawn. Kat says the transports are not going back. They are bringing up troops, ammunition, and shells.

The English artillery has been strengthened, that we can detect at once. There are at least four more batteries of twenty-fives to the right of the farm, and behind the poplars they have put in trench-mortars. Besides these they have brought up a number of those little French beasts with instantaneous fuses.

We can tell at once that the English have strengthened their artillery. There are at least four more batteries of twenty-fives to the right of the farm. They have also placed trench mortars behind the poplars. Besides these, they have brought up a number of those little French beasts with instantaneous fuses.

We are in low spirits. After we have been in the dug-outs two hours our own shells begin to fall in the trench. This is the third time in four weeks. If it were simply a mistake in aim no one would say anything, but the truth is that the barrels are worn out. The shots are often so uncertain that they land within our own lines. To-night two of our men were wounded by them.

Our spirits are low. After two hours in the dugouts, our own shells start falling in the trench. This is the third time in four weeks. If it were simply a mistake in aiming, no one would say anything. But the gun barrels are worn out. The shots are often so inaccurate that they land within our own lines. Tonight, two of our men were wounded by our own shells.

* *

* *

The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. Over us Chance hovers. If a shot comes, we can duck, that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall.

The front is a cage where we wait in fear for whatever may happen. We lie beneath a web of shells arcing overhead, suspended in uncertainty. Chance hovers over us. If a shot comes, all we can do is duck. We cannot know or control where it will land.

It is this Chance that makes us indifferent. A few months ago I was sitting in a dug-out playing skat; after a while I stood up and went to visit some friends in another dug-out. On my return nothing more was to be seen of the first one, it had been blown to pieces by a direct hit. I went back to the second and arrived just in time to lend a hand digging it out. In the interval it had been buried.

It is chance that makes us indifferent. A few months ago, I was sitting in a dugout playing skat. After a while, I got up and went to visit some friends in another dugout. When I returned, nothing was left of the first dugout. A direct hit had blown it to pieces. I went back to the second dugout and arrived just in time to help dig it out. It had been buried in the meantime.

It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. In a bomb-proof dug-out I may be smashed to atoms and in the open may survive ten hours' bombardment unscathed. No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck.

It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. I may be blown to pieces in a bombproof dugout. Yet I may survive ten hours of bombardment in the open without a scratch. No soldier survives a thousand close calls. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck.

* *

* *

We must look out for our bread. The rats have become much more numerous lately because the trenches are no longer in good condition. Detering says it is a sure sign of a coming bombardment.

We have to guard our bread. There are many more rats lately because the trenches are no longer in good condition. Detering says the rats are a sure sign that a bombardment is coming.

The rats here are particularly repulsive, they are so fat—the kind we call corpse-rats. They have shocking, evil, naked faces, and it is nauseating to see their long, nude tails.

The rats here are especially disgusting because they are so fat. We call them corpse-rats. Their bare faces are shocking and evil, and their long, naked tails are sickening to look at.

They seem to be mighty hungry. Almost every man has had his bread gnawed. Kropp wrapped his in his waterproof sheet and put it under his head, but he cannot sleep because they run over his face to get at it. Detering meant to outwit them: he fastened a thin wire to the roof and suspended his bread from it. During the night when he switched on his pocket-torch he saw the wire swinging to and fro. On the bread was riding a fat rat.

They seem very hungry. Almost every man has had his bread gnawed by them. Kropp wrapped his bread in his waterproof sheet and put it under his head. But he cannot sleep because they run over his face to get at it. Detering tried to outsmart them. He fastened a thin wire to the roof and hung his bread from it. During the night, he switched on his flashlight and saw the wire swinging back and forth. A fat rat was riding on the bread.

At last we put a stop to it. We cannot afford to throw the bread away, because already we have practically nothing left to eat in the morning, so we carefully cut off the bits of bread that the animals have gnawed.

At last, we put a stop to it. We cannot afford to throw away the bread because we already have almost nothing left to eat in the morning. So we carefully cut off the pieces the animals have gnawed.

The slices we cut off are heaped together in the middle of the floor. Each man takes out his spade and lies down prepared to strike. Detering, Kropp, and Kat hold their pocket-lamps ready.

The slices we cut off are piled in the middle of the floor. Each man takes out his spade and lies down, ready to strike. Detering, Kropp, and Kat have their pocket flashlights ready.

After a few minutes we hear the first shuffling and tugging. It grows, now it is the sound of many little feet. Then the torches switch on and every man strikes at the heap, which scatters with a rush. The result is good. We toss the bits of rat over the parapet and again lie in wait.

After a few minutes, we hear the first shuffling and tugging. The noise grows until we can hear many little feet. Then the flashlights come on, and every man strikes at the heap. The rats scatter in a rush. The result is good. We toss the pieces of rat over the parapet and lie in wait again.

Several times we repeat the process. At last the beasts get wise to it, or perhaps they have scented the blood. They return no more. Nevertheless, before morning the remainder of the bread on the floor has been carried off.

We repeat the process several times. At last, the beasts catch on, or perhaps they have smelled the blood. They do not return. Even so, by morning, the rest of the bread on the floor has been carried away.

In the adjoining sector they attacked two large cats and a dog, bit them to death and devoured them.

In the neighboring sector, they attacked two large cats and a dog. They bit them to death and ate them.

Next day there is an issue of Edamer cheese. Each man gets almost a quarter of a cheese. In one way that is all to the good, for Edamer is tasty—but in another way it is vile, because the fat red balls have long been a sign of a bad time coming. Our forebodings increase as rum is served out. We drink it of course; but are not greatly comforted.

The next day, Edamer cheese is handed out. Each man gets almost a quarter of a cheese. In one way, that’s a good thing, because Edamer is tasty. But in another way, it’s terrible. Those fat red balls of cheese have long been a sign of hard times ahead. We grow even more worried when rum is handed out. We drink it, of course, but it doesn’t make us feel much better.

For days we loaf about and make war on the rats. Ammunition and hand-grenades become more plentiful. We even overhaul the bayonets—that is to say, the ones that have a saw on the blunt edge. If the fellows over there catch a man with one of those he's killed at sight. In the next sector some of our men were found whose noses were cut off and their eyes poked out with their own saw-bayonets. Their mouths and noses were stuffed with sawdust so that they suffocated.

For days we sit around and fight the rats. Ammunition and hand grenades become more plentiful. We even check our bayonets, especially the ones with a saw on the blunt edge. If the men on the other side catch anyone with one of those, they kill him on sight. In the next sector, some of our men were found with their noses cut off and their eyes gouged out with their own saw-bayonets. Their mouths and noses had been stuffed with sawdust, so they suffocated.

Some of the recruits have bayonets of this kind; we take them away and give them the ordinary kind.

Some recruits have bayonets like these. We take them away and give the recruits ordinary bayonets.

But the bayonet has practically lost its importance. It is usually the fashion now to charge with bombs and spades only. The sharpened spade is a more handy and many-sided weapon; not only can it be used for jabbing a man under the chin, but it is much better for striking with because of its greater weight, and if one hits between the neck and shoulder it easily cleaves as far down as the chest. The bayonet frequently jams on the thrust and then a man has to kick hard on the other fellow's belly to pull it out again; and in the interval he may easily get one himself. And what's more the blade often gets broken off.

But the bayonet has practically lost its importance. These days, soldiers usually charge armed only with bombs and spades. A sharpened spade is handier and more versatile. It can be used to jab a man under the chin. Because it is heavier, it is also much better for striking. If it hits between the neck and shoulder, it easily cuts down to the chest. A bayonet often gets stuck when thrust into someone. Then a man has to kick hard against the other man's belly to pull it out. In the meantime, he can easily get stabbed himself. What's more, the bayonet blade often breaks off.

At night they send over gas. We expect the attack to follow and lie with our masks on, ready to tear them off as soon as the first shadow appears.

At night, they send gas over. We expect an attack to follow, so we lie with our masks on. We are ready to tear them off as soon as the first shadow appears.

Dawn approaches without anything happening—only the everlasting, nerve-wracking roll behind the enemy lines, trains, trains, lorries, lorries; but what are they concentrating? Our artillery fires on it continually, but still it does not cease.

Dawn approaches, and nothing happens. There is only the endless, nerve-racking rumble behind the enemy lines. Trains, trains, trucks, trucks. But what are they gathering? Our artillery fires on them constantly, but the rumble does not stop.

We have tired faces and avoid each other's eyes. "It will be like the Somme," says Kat gloomily. "There we were shelled steadily for seven days and nights." Kat has lost all his fun since we have been here, which is bad, for Kat is an old front-hog, and can smell what is coming. Only Tjaden seems pleased with the good rations and the rum; he thinks we might even go back to rest without anything happening at all.

Our faces are tired, and we avoid each other's eyes. "It will be like the Somme," Kat says gloomily. "There we were shelled steadily for seven days and nights." Kat has lost all his cheer since we arrived here. That is a bad sign, because Kat is an old front-line veteran who can sense what is coming. Only Tjaden seems pleased with the good rations and the rum. He thinks we might even go back to rest without anything happening at all.

It almost looks like it. Day after day passes. At night I squat in the listening-post. Above me the rockets and parachute-lights shoot up and float down again. I am cautious and tense, my heart thumps. My eyes turn again and again to the luminous dial of my watch; the hands will not budge. Sleep hangs on my eyelids, I work my toes in my boots in order to keep awake. Nothing happens till I am relieved;—only the everlasting rolling over there. Gradually we grow calmer and play skat and poker continually. Perhaps we will be lucky.

It almost looks like it. Day after day passes. At night I crouch in the listening post. Above me, rockets and parachute flares shoot up and float down again. I am cautious and tense, and my heart pounds. I keep looking at the glowing dial of my watch, but the hands won't move. My eyelids grow heavy with sleep. I wiggle my toes in my boots to stay awake. Nothing happens until someone comes to relieve me. There is only the endless rumbling over there. Gradually we grow calmer and play skat and poker all the time. Perhaps we will be lucky.

All day the sky is hung with observation balloons. There is a rumour that the enemy are going to put tanks over and use low-flying planes for the attack. But that interests us less than what we hear of the new flame-throwers.

All day, observation balloons fill the sky. There is a rumor that the enemy will send in tanks and use low-flying planes for the attack. But that interests us less than what we hear about the new flamethrowers.

* *

* *

We wake up in the middle of the night. The earth booms. Heavy fire is falling on us. We crouch into corners. We distinguish shells of every calibre.

We wake up in the middle of the night. The earth booms. Heavy fire is raining down on us. We crouch in corners. We can make out shells of every size.

Each man lays hold of his things and looks again every minute to reassure himself that they are still there. The dug-out heaves, the night roars and flashes. We look at each other in the momentary flashes of light, and with pale faces and pressed lips shake our heads.

Each man grabs his belongings and checks them every minute to make sure they are still there. The dugout heaves. The night roars and flashes. In the brief flashes of light, we look at each other and shake our heads, pale-faced and tight-lipped.

Every man is aware of the heavy shells tearing down the parapet, rooting up the embankment and demolishing the upper layers of concrete. When a shell lands in the trench we note how the hollow, furious blast is like a blow from the paw of a raging beast of prey. Already by morning a few of the recruits are green and vomiting. They are too inexperienced.

Every man knows that the heavy shells are tearing down the parapet, ripping up the embankment, and destroying the upper layers of concrete. When a shell lands in the trench, we notice how its hollow, furious blast feels like a blow from a raging predator’s paw. By morning, a few of the recruits are already green and vomiting. They are too inexperienced.

Slowly the grey light trickles into the post and pales the flashes of the shells. Morning is come. The explosion of mines mingles with the gun-fire. That is the most dementing convulsion of all. The whole region where they go up becomes one grave.

Slowly, gray light filters into the post and makes the flashes of the shells look pale. Morning has come. Exploding mines mingle with the gunfire. This is the most maddening upheaval of all. The whole area where the mines explode becomes one grave.

The reliefs go out, the observers stagger in, covered with dirt, and trembling. One lies down in silence in the corner and eats, the other, a reservist-reinforcement, sobs; twice he has been flung over the parapet by the blast of the explosions without getting any more than shell-shock.

The replacements go out. The observers stagger in, covered in dirt and trembling. One lies down silently in the corner and eats. The other, a reserve soldier sent as a reinforcement, sobs. Twice, the force of the explosions has thrown him over the parapet, but he has suffered nothing worse than shell shock.

The recruits are eyeing him. We must watch them, these things are catching, already some lips begin to quiver. It is good that it is growing daylight; perhaps the attack will come before noon.

The recruits are watching him. We must watch them because these things are catching. Already, some lips are beginning to tremble. It is good that daylight is coming. Perhaps the attack will come before noon.

The bombardment does not diminish. It is falling in the rear too. As far as one can see it spouts fountains of mud and iron. A wide belt is being raked.

The bombardment does not let up. Shells are falling behind us too. As far as we can see, they throw up fountains of mud and iron. A wide stretch of ground is being swept by fire.

The attack does not come, but the bombardment continues. Slowly we become mute. Hardly a man speaks. We cannot make ourselves understood.

The attack does not come, but the bombardment continues. Slowly, we fall silent. Hardly anyone speaks. We cannot make ourselves understood.

Our trench is almost gone. At many places it is only eighteen inches high, it is broken by holes, and craters, and mountains of earth. A shell lands square in front of our post. At once it is dark. We are buried and must dig ourselves out. After an hour the entrance is clear again, and we are calmer because we have had something to do.

Our trench is almost gone. In many places, it is only eighteen inches high, broken up by holes, craters, and mountains of earth. A shell lands directly in front of our post. Everything goes dark at once. We are buried and have to dig ourselves out. After an hour, the entrance is clear again. We are calmer because we have had something to do.

Our company commander scrambles in and reports that two dug-outs are gone. The recruits calm themselves when they see him. He says that an attempt will be made to bring up food this evening.

Our company commander scrambles in and reports that two dugouts are gone. The recruits calm down when they see him. He says they will try to bring up food this evening.

That sounds reassuring. No one had thought of it except Tjaden. Now the outside world seems to draw a little nearer: if food can be brought up, think the recruits, then it can't really be so bad.

That sounds reassuring. No one except Tjaden had thought of it. Now the outside world seems a little closer. The recruits think that if food can be brought up, things can't really be so bad.

We do not disabuse them; we know that food is as important as ammunition and only for that reason must be brought up.

We don't correct them. We know food is as important as ammunition, and for that reason alone it must be brought up.

But it miscarries. A second party goes out, and it also turns back. Finally Kat tries, and even he reappears without accomplishing anything. No one gets through, not even a fly is small enough to get through such a barrage.

But it fails. A second group goes out, but they turn back too. Finally, Kat tries, and even he comes back without getting through. No one gets through. Not even a fly is small enough to get through such a barrage.

We pull in our belts tighter and chew every mouthful three times as long. Still the food does not last out; we are damnably hungry. I take out a scrap of bread, eat the white and put the crust back in my knapsack; from time to time I nibble at it.

We tighten our belts and chew every bite three times as long. Still, the food runs out, and we are damn hungry. I take out a scrap of bread and eat the soft part. I put the crust back in my knapsack and nibble at it from time to time.

* *

* *

The night is unbearable. We cannot sleep, but stare ahead of us and doze. Tjaden regrets that we wasted the gnawed pieces of bread on the rats. We would gladly have them again to eat now. We are short of water, too, but not seriously yet.

The night is unbearable. We cannot sleep. We just stare ahead and doze. Tjaden regrets wasting the gnawed pieces of bread on the rats. We would gladly eat those pieces now. We are short of water too, but not seriously yet.

Towards morning, while it is still dark, there is some excitement. Through the entrance rushes in a swarm of fleeing rats that try to storm the walls. Torches light up the confusion. Everyone yells and curses and slaughters. The madness and despair of many hours unloads itself in this outburst. Faces are distorted, arms strike out, the beasts scream; we just stop in time to avoid attacking one another.

Toward morning, while it is still dark, some excitement breaks out. A swarm of fleeing rats rushes through the entrance and tries to climb the walls. Torches light up the chaos. Everyone yells, curses, and kills the rats. The madness and despair of many hours pour out in this outburst. Faces twist, arms strike out, and the animals scream. We stop just in time to avoid attacking one another.

The onslaught has exhausted us. We lie down to wait again. It is a marvel that our post has had no casualties so far. It is one of the few deep dug-outs.

The attack has exhausted us. We lie down to wait again. It is a wonder that no one at our post has been killed or wounded so far. Our post is one of the few deep dugouts.

A corporal creeps in; he has a loaf of bread with him. Three people have had the luck to get through during the night and bring some provisions. They say the bombardment extends undiminished as far as the artillery lines. It is a mystery where the enemy gets all his shells.

A corporal creeps in with a loaf of bread. Three people managed to get through during the night and bring some supplies. They say the bombardment is just as heavy all the way back to the artillery lines. It is a mystery where the enemy gets all his shells.

We wait and wait. By midday what I expected happens. One of the recruits has a fit. I have been watching him for a long time, grinding his teeth and opening and shutting his fists. These hunted, protruding eyes, we know them too well. During the last few hours he has had merely the appearance of calm. He had collapsed like a rotten tree.

We wait and wait. By midday, what I expected happens. One of the recruits has a fit. I have been watching him for a long time. He has been grinding his teeth and clenching and unclenching his fists. We know those hunted, bulging eyes too well. For the last few hours, he has only looked calm. He had collapsed like a rotten tree.

Now he stands up, stealthily creeps across the floor, hesitates a moment and then glides towards the door. I intercept him and say: "Where are you going?"

Now he stands up and quietly creeps across the floor. He hesitates for a moment, then glides toward the door. I stop him and say: "Where are you going?"

"I'll be back in a minute," says he, and tries to push past me.

"I'll be back in a minute," he says, and tries to push past me.

"Wait a bit, the shelling will stop soon."

"Wait a moment, the shelling will stop soon."

He listens and for a moment his eye becomes clear. Then again he has the glowering eyes of a mad dog, he is silent, he shoves me aside.

He listens, and for a moment his eye clears. Then his eyes glare again like a mad dog's. He says nothing and shoves me aside.

"One minute, lad," I say. Kat notices. Just as the recruit shakes me off Kat jumps in and we hold him.

"Wait a minute, kid," I say. Kat notices. Just as the recruit shakes me off, Kat jumps in, and we hold him.

Then he begins to rave: "Leave me alone, let me go out, I will go out!"

Then he starts shouting wildly: "Leave me alone! Let me out! I'm going out!"

He won't listen to anything and hits out, his mouth is wet and pours out words, half choked, meaningless words. It is a case of claustrophobia, he feels as though he is suffocating here and wants to get out at any price. If we let him go he would run about everywhere regardless of cover. He is not the first.

He won't listen to anything and lashes out. His mouth is wet, and he pours out half-choked, meaningless words. It is claustrophobia. He feels as if he is suffocating here and wants to get out at any cost. If we let him go, he would run everywhere without staying under cover. He is not the first.

Though he raves and his eyes roll, it can't be helped, we have to give him a hiding to bring him to his senses. We do it quickly and mercilessly, and at last he sits down quietly. The others have turned pale; let's hope it deters them. This bombardment is too much for the poor devils, they have been sent straight from a recruiting-depot into a barrage that is enough to turn an old soldier's hair grey.

Although he rants and his eyes roll, we have no choice. We have to beat him to bring him to his senses. We do it quickly and mercilessly, and at last he sits down quietly. The others have turned pale. Let's hope the beating discourages them. This bombardment is too much for the poor devils. They were sent straight from a recruiting depot into a barrage strong enough to turn an old soldier's hair gray.

After this affair the sticky, close atmosphere works more than ever on our nerves. We sit as if in our graves waiting only to be closed in.

After this incident, the sticky, stifling air gets on our nerves more than ever. We sit as if in our graves, waiting to be sealed in.

Suddenly it howls and flashes terrifically, the dug-out cracks in all its joints under a direct hit, fortunately only a light one that the concrete blocks are able to withstand. It rings metallically, the walls reel, rifles, helmets, earth, mud, and dust fly everywhere. Sulphur fumes pour in.

Suddenly, there is a terrible howl and flash. A direct hit makes the dugout crack at every joint. Fortunately, it is only a light hit, and the concrete blocks can withstand it. A metallic ringing sounds as the walls shake. Rifles, helmets, earth, mud, and dust fly everywhere. Sulfur fumes pour in.

If we were in one of those light dug-outs that they have been building lately instead of this deep one, not one of us would now be alive.

If we were in one of the shallow dugouts they have been building lately, instead of this deep one, none of us would be alive now.

But the effect is bad enough even so. The recruit starts to rave again and two others follow suit. One jumps up and rushes out, we have trouble with the other two. I start after the one who escapes and wonder whether to shoot him in the leg—then it shrieks again, I fling myself down and when I stand up the wall of the trench is plastered with smoking splinters, lumps of flesh, and bits of uniform. I scramble back.

But the effect is still bad enough. The recruit starts raving again, and two others do the same. One jumps up and rushes out. We struggle with the other two. I go after the one who escaped and wonder whether to shoot him in the leg. Then it shrieks again. I throw myself down. When I stand up, the trench wall is covered with smoking splinters, lumps of flesh, and bits of uniform. I scramble back.

The first recruit seems actually to have gone insane. He butts his head against the wall like a goat. We must try to-night to take him to the rear. Meanwhile we bind him, but in such a way that in case of attack he can be released at once.

The first recruit seems to have actually gone insane. He bangs his head against the wall like a goat. We must try to take him to the rear tonight. For now, we tie him up, but so that he can be released immediately if there is an attack.

Kat suggests a game of skat: it is easier when a man has something to do. But it is no use, we listen for every explosion that comes close, miscount the tricks, and fail to follow suit. We have to give it up. We sit as though in a hissing boiler that is being belaboured from without on all sides.

Kat suggests a game of skat. Having something to do makes things easier. But the game is no use. We listen for every explosion that comes close, miscount the tricks, and fail to follow suit. We have to give up. We sit as if we are inside a hissing boiler being battered from all sides.

Night again. We are deadened by the strain—a deadly tension that scrapes along one's spine like a gapped knife. Our legs refuse to move, our hands tremble, our bodies are a thin skin stretched painfully over repressed madness, over an almost irresistible, bursting roar. We have neither flesh nor muscles any longer, we dare not look at one another for fear of some incalculable thing. So we shut our teeth—it will end—it will end—perhaps we will come through.

Night again. The strain has left us numb. The deadly tension scrapes along our spines like a nicked knife. Our legs refuse to move, and our hands tremble. Our bodies are just a thin layer of skin stretched painfully over madness we are holding back. Beneath that skin is an almost irresistible roar, ready to burst out. We no longer have flesh or muscles. We dare not look at one another for fear of something beyond imagining. So we clench our teeth. It will end. It will end. Perhaps we will make it through.

Suddenly the nearer explosions cease. The shelling continues but it has lifted and falls behind us, our trench is free. We seize the hand-grenades, pitch them out in front of the dug-out and jump after them. The bombardment has stopped and a heavy barrage now falls behind us. The attack has come.

Suddenly, the explosions nearby stop. The shelling continues, but the shells now fall behind us, leaving our trench untouched. We grab the hand grenades, throw them out in front of the dugout, and jump out after them. The bombardment has stopped, and heavy shellfire is now falling behind us. The attack has begun.

No one would believe that in this howling waste there could still be men; but steel helmets now appear on all sides out of the trench, and fifty yards from us a machine-gun is already in position and barking.

No one would believe men could still be alive in this howling wasteland. But steel helmets now appear all around us, rising from the trench. Fifty yards away, a machine gun is already in position and barking.

The wire-entanglements are torn to pieces. Yet they offer some obstacle. We see the storm-troops coming. Our artillery opens fire. Machine-guns rattle, rifles crack. The charge works its way across. Haie and Kropp begin with the hand-grenades. They throw as fast as they can, others pass them, the handles with the strings already pulled. Haie throws seventy-five yards, Kropp sixty, it has been measured, the distance is important. The enemy as they run cannot do much before they are within forty yards.

The barbed wire is torn to pieces. Yet it still offers some resistance. We see the storm troops coming. Our artillery opens fire. Machine guns rattle, and rifles crack. The attackers make their way across. Haie and Kropp start throwing hand grenades. They throw as fast as they can. Others pass them grenades with the strings already pulled. Haie can throw seventy-five yards and Kropp sixty. The distances have been measured, and they matter. The enemy cannot do much while running until they are within forty yards.

We recognize the distorted faces, the smooth helmets: they are French. They have already suffered heavily when they reach the remnants of the barbed wire entanglements. A whole line has gone down before our machine-guns; then we have a lot of stoppages and they come nearer.

We recognize the distorted faces and smooth helmets. They are French. By the time they reach what remains of the barbed wire, they have already suffered heavy losses. Our machine guns have cut down a whole line of them. Then our guns keep jamming, and the French come closer.

I see one of them, his face upturned, fall into a wire cradle. His body collapses, his hands remain suspended as though he were praying. Then his body drops clean away and only his hands with the stumps of his arms, shot off, now hang in the wire.

I see one of them fall into a cradle of wire, his face turned upward. His body collapses, but his hands remain hanging as if he were praying. Then his body drops away completely. Only his hands and the stumps of his arms, shot off, remain hanging in the wire.

The moment we are about to retreat three faces rise up from the ground in front of us. Under one of the helmets a dark pointed beard and two eyes that are fastened on me. I raise my hand, but I cannot throw into those strange eyes; for one mad moment the whole slaughter whirls like a circus round me, and these two eyes that are alone motionless; then the head rises up, a hand, a movement, and my hand-grenade flies through the air and into him.

Just as we are about to retreat, three faces rise from the ground in front of us. Beneath one helmet, a man with a dark, pointed beard stares at me. I raise my hand, but I cannot throw at those strange eyes. For one mad moment, all the slaughter spins around me like a circus. Only those two eyes are still. Then the head rises, a hand moves, and my hand grenade flies through the air and into him.

We make for the rear, pull wire cradles into the trench and leave bombs behind us with the string pulled, which ensure us a fiery retreat. The machine-guns are already firing from the next position.

We head back, pulling wire cradles into the trench and leaving bombs behind with their strings pulled. The bombs ensure a fiery retreat. Machine guns are already firing from the next position.

We have become wild beasts. We do not fight, we defend ourselves against annihilation. It is not against men that we fling our bombs, what do we know of men in this moment when Death with hands and helmets is hunting us down—now, for the first time in three days we can see his face, now, for the first time in three days we can oppose him; we feel a mad anger. No longer do we lie helpless, waiting on the scaffold, we can destroy and kill, to save ourselves, to save ourselves and be revenged.

We have become wild beasts. We are not fighting. We are defending ourselves against being wiped out. We do not throw our bombs at men. What do we know of men at this moment, when Death hunts us down with hands and helmets? Now, for the first time in three days, we can see his face. Now, for the first time in three days, we can fight back against him. We feel a wild rage. We no longer lie helpless, waiting to be executed. We can destroy and kill to save ourselves, to save ourselves and take revenge.

We crouch behind every corner, behind every barrier of barbed wire, and hurl heaps of explosives at the feet of the advancing enemy before we run. The blast of the hand-grenades impinges powerfully on our arms and legs; crouching like cats we run on, overwhelmed by this wave that bears us along, that fills us with ferocity, turning us into thugs, into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb into him.

We crouch behind every corner and every barrier of barbed wire. Before we run, we throw piles of explosives at the feet of the advancing enemy. The blasts from the hand grenades hit our arms and legs with great force. Crouching like cats, we run on, swept along by a wave that overwhelms us. It fills us with ferocity, turning us into thugs, murderers, and God only knows what kind of devils. The wave multiplies our strength with fear, madness, and a desperate hunger for life. We seek and fight for nothing but our own escape. If your own father came over with the enemy, you would not hesitate to throw a bomb at him.

The forward trenches have been abandoned. Are they still trenches? They are blown to pieces, annihilated—there are only broken bits of trenches, holes linked by tracks; nests of craters, that is all. But the enemy's casualties increase. They did not count on so much resistance.

The forward trenches have been abandoned. Can they even be called trenches now? They have been blown apart, completely destroyed. All that remains are broken stretches of trench, holes connected by tracks, and clusters of craters. But the enemy's casualties are growing. They did not expect so much resistance.

* *

* *

It is nearly noon. The sun blazes hotly, the sweat stings in our eyes, we wipe it off on our sleeves and often blood with it. At last we reach a trench that is in a somewhat better condition. It is manned and ready for the counter-attack, it receives us. Our guns open up in full blast and cut off the enemy attack.

It is almost noon. The sun beats down, and sweat stings our eyes. We wipe it away with our sleeves, often wiping away blood too. At last we reach a trench in somewhat better condition. Soldiers are stationed there, ready for the counterattack, and they take us in. Our guns open fire at full force and cut off the enemy attack.

The lines behind us stop. They can advance no farther. The attack is crushed by our artillery. We watch. The fire lifts a hundred yards and we break forward. Beside me a lance-corporal has his head torn off. He runs a few steps more while the blood spouts from his neck like a fountain.

The lines behind us stop. They cannot move any farther. Our artillery crushes the attack. We watch. The artillery fire moves a hundred yards ahead, and we rush forward. Beside me, a lance corporal has his head torn off. He runs a few more steps as blood spurts from his neck like a fountain.

It does not come quite to hand-to-hand fighting; they are driven back. We arrive once again at our shattered trench and pass on beyond it.

It almost comes to hand-to-hand fighting, but they are driven back. We reach our shattered trench again and move beyond it.

Oh, this turning back again! We reach the shelter of the reserves and yearn to creep in and disappear;—but instead we must turn round and plunge again into the horror. If we were not automata at that moment we would continue lying there, exhausted, and without will. But we are swept forward again, powerless, madly savage and raging; we will kill, for they are still our mortal enemies, their rifles and bombs are aimed against us, and if we don't destroy them, they will destroy us.

Oh, having to turn back again! We reach the reserves’ shelter and long to crawl inside and disappear. But instead, we must turn around and plunge back into the horror. If we weren’t like machines at that moment, we would stay there, exhausted and without the will to move. But we are swept forward again, powerless, wildly savage and raging. We will kill, because they are still our mortal enemies. Their rifles and bombs are aimed at us, and if we don’t destroy them, they will destroy us.

The brown earth, the torn, blasted earth, with a greasy shine under the sun's rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons, our gasping is the scratching of a quill, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor—thus we stagger forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulsed and dead soldiers, who lie there—it can't be helped—who cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them.

The brown earth is torn and blasted, shining greasily in the sunlight. It is the backdrop to this restless, gloomy world of automatons. Our gasping sounds like a quill scratching on paper. Our lips are dry, and our minds are dulled by stupor. We stagger forward, and a torturing image bores into our pierced and shattered souls. It is the image of the brown earth under the greasy sun, and the convulsing and dead soldiers lying there. They cry out and clutch at our legs as we leap over them. We cannot help it.

We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our hunted glance lights on the form of some other man. We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic, are still able to run and to kill.

We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our hunted eyes fall on another man. We are numb, dead men who can still run and kill through some trick, some dreadful magic.

A young Frenchman lags behind, he is overtaken, he puts up his hands, in one he still holds his revolver—does he mean to shoot or to give himself up?—a blow from a spade cleaves through his face. A second sees it and tries to run farther; a bayonet jabs into his back. He leaps in the air, his arms thrown wide, his mouth wide open, yelling; he staggers, in his back the bayonet quivers. A third throws away his rifle, cowers down with his hands before his eyes. He is left behind with a few other prisoners to carry off the wounded.

A young Frenchman falls behind and is overtaken. He raises his hands, still holding his revolver in one. Does he mean to shoot or surrender? A blow from a spade splits his face. A second man sees this and tries to run farther. A bayonet jabs into his back. He leaps into the air, his arms flung wide, his mouth open as he yells. He staggers, the bayonet trembling in his back. A third man throws away his rifle and crouches with his hands over his eyes. He is left behind with a few other prisoners to carry off the wounded.

Suddenly in the pursuit we reach the enemy line.

Suddenly, as we pursue the enemy, we reach their line.

We are so close on the heels of our retreating enemies that we reach it almost at the same time as they. In this way we suffer few casualties. A machine-gun barks, but is silenced with a bomb. Nevertheless, the couple of seconds has sufficed to give us five stomach wounds. With the butt of his rifle Kat smashes to pulp the face of one of the unwounded machine-gunners. We bayonet the others before they have time to get out their bombs. Then thirstily we drink the water they have for cooling the gun.

We follow our retreating enemies so closely that we reach it almost at the same time they do. As a result, we suffer few casualties. A machine gun opens fire, but a bomb silences it. Even so, those few seconds are enough to leave five of us wounded in the stomach. Kat smashes the face of one of the unhurt machine gunners to a pulp with his rifle butt. We bayonet the others before they have time to pull out their bombs. Then, thirsty, we drink the water they have for cooling the gun.

Everywhere wire-cutters are snapping, planks are thrown across the entanglements, we jump through the narrow entrances into the trenches. Haie strikes his spade into the neck of a gigantic Frenchman and throws the first hand-grenade; we duck behind a breastwork for a few seconds, then the whole section of trench before us is empty. The next throw whizzes obliquely over the corner and clears a passage; as we run past we toss handfuls down into the dug-outs, the earth shudders, it crashes, dully and stifled, we stumble over slippery lumps of flesh, over yielding bodies; I fall into an open belly on which lies a clean, new officer's cap.

Wire cutters snap everywhere. Planks are thrown across the wire, and we jump through the narrow openings into the trenches. Haie drives his spade into the neck of a gigantic Frenchman and throws the first hand grenade. We duck behind a defensive wall for a few seconds. Then the whole section of trench ahead of us is empty. The next grenade flies diagonally around the corner and clears a passage. As we run past the dugouts, we toss handfuls of grenades into them. The earth shudders, and muffled explosions crash. We stumble over slippery lumps of flesh and bodies that give way beneath us. I fall into an open belly. A clean, new officer’s cap lies on it.

The fight ceases. We lose touch with the enemy. We cannot stay here long but must retire under cover of our artillery to our own position. No sooner do we know this than we dive into the nearest dug-outs, and with the utmost haste seize on whatever provisions we can see, especially the tins of corned beef and butter, before we clear out.

The fighting stops. We lose contact with the enemy. We cannot stay here long. We must retreat to our own position under cover of our artillery. As soon as we know this, we dive into the nearest dugouts. Before leaving, we grab whatever supplies we can see, especially tins of corned beef and butter. We hurry as fast as we can.

We get back pretty well. There has been no further attack by the enemy. We lie for an hour panting and resting before anyone speaks. We are so completely played out that in spite of our great hunger we do not think of the provisions. Then gradually we become something like men again.

We get back in fairly good shape. The enemy has not attacked again. We lie there for an hour, panting and resting, before anyone speaks. We are so exhausted that, despite our great hunger, we do not think about the food. Then, gradually, we begin to feel human again.

The corned beef over there is famous along the whole front. Occasionally it has been the chief reason for a flying raid on our part, for our nourishment is generally very bad; we have a constant hunger.

The corned beef over there is famous all along the front. Sometimes it has been the main reason for a quick raid by our troops. That is because our food is usually very bad, and we are always hungry.

We bagged five tins altogether. The fellows over there are well looked after; it seems a luxury to us with our hunger-pangs, our turnip jam, and meat so scarce that we simply grab at it. Haie has scored a thin loaf of white French bread, and stuck it in behind his belt like a spade. It is a bit bloody at one corner, but that can be cut off.

We got five tins in all. The fellows over there are well looked after. It seems like luxury to us. We have hunger pains and turnip jam, and meat is so scarce that we grab at it. Haie has found a thin loaf of white French bread and tucked it behind his belt like a spade. One corner is a little bloody, but that can be cut off.

It is a good thing we have something decent to eat at last; we still have a use for all our strength. Enough to eat is just as valuable as a good dug-out; it can save our lives; that is the reason we are so greedy for it.

It's good to have something decent to eat at last. We still need all our strength. Having enough to eat is just as valuable as a good dugout. It can save our lives, which is why we're so greedy for food.

Tjaden has captured two water-bottles full of cognac. We pass them round.

Tjaden has captured two water bottles full of cognac. We pass them around.

* *

* *

The evening benediction begins. Night comes, out of the craters rise the mists. It looks as though the holes were full of ghostly secrets. The white vapour creeps painfully round before it ventures to steal away over the edge. Then long streaks stretch from crater to crater.

The evening blessing begins. Night falls, and mist rises from the craters. The holes look as if they are full of ghostly secrets. The white mist creeps painfully around before daring to slip over the edge. Then long streaks stretch from crater to crater.

It is chilly. I am on sentry and stare into the darkness. My strength is exhausted as always after an attack, and so it is hard for me to be alone with my thoughts. They are not properly thoughts; they are memories which in my weakness turn homeward and strangely move me.

It is cold. I am on guard, staring into the darkness. As always after an attack, I am exhausted. So it is hard to be alone with my thoughts. They are not really thoughts. They are memories of home that surface in my weakness and move me strangely.

The parachute-lights shoot upwards—and I see a picture, a summer evening, I am in the cathedral cloister and look at the tall rose trees that bloom in the middle of the little cloister garden where the monks lie buried. Around the walls are the stone carvings of the Stations of the Cross. No one is there. A great quietness rules in this blossoming quadrangle, the sun lies warm on the heavy grey stones, I place my hand upon them and feel the warmth. At the right-hand corner the green cathedral spire ascends into the pale blue sky of the evening. Between the glowing columns of the cloister is the cool darkness that only churches have, and I stand there and wonder whether, when I am twenty, I shall have experienced the bewildering emotions of love.

The parachute flares shoot upward, and I see a picture of a summer evening. I am in the cathedral cloister, looking at the tall rose trees blooming in the middle of the little garden. The monks are buried there. Stone carvings of the Stations of the Cross line the walls. No one is there. A deep quiet fills the flowering courtyard. The sun warms the heavy gray stones, and I place my hand on them and feel their warmth. At the right-hand corner, the green cathedral spire rises into the pale blue evening sky. Between the glowing columns of the cloister is the cool darkness found only in churches. I stand there and wonder whether, by the time I am twenty, I will have experienced the bewildering emotions of love.

The image is alarmingly near; it touches me before it dissolves in the light of the next star-shell.

The image is frighteningly close. It touches me before it fades in the light of the next star-shell.

I lay hold of my rifle to see that it is in trim. The barrel is wet, I take it in my hand and rub off the moisture with my fingers.

I pick up my rifle to check that it is in good condition. The barrel is wet. I hold it and rub off the moisture with my fingers.

Between the meadows behind our town there stands a line of old poplars by a stream. They were visible from a great distance, and although they grew on one bank only, we called them the poplar avenue. Even as children we had a great love for them, they drew us vaguely thither, we played truant the whole day by them and listened to their rustling. We sat beneath them on the bank of the stream and let our feet hang over in the bright, swift waters. The pure fragrance of the water and the melody of the wind in the poplars held our fancies. We loved them dearly, and the image of those days still makes my heart pause in its beating.

Among the meadows behind our town, a row of old poplars stands beside a stream. You could see them from far away. Although they grew on only one bank, we called them the poplar avenue. Even as children, we loved them. They drew us to them, though we weren't sure why. We skipped school and spent whole days beside them, listening to their leaves rustle. We sat beneath them on the stream bank, dangling our feet in the bright, swift water. The fresh scent of the water and the sound of the wind in the poplars captured our imaginations. We loved the trees dearly, and the memory of those days still makes my heart pause.

It is strange that all the memories that come have these two qualities. They are always completely calm, that is predominant in them; and even if they are not really calm, they become so. They are soundless apparitions that speak to me, with looks and gestures, silently, without any word—and it is the alarm of their silence that forces me to lay hold of my sleeve and my rifle lest I should abandon myself to the liberation and allurement in which my body would dilate and gently pass away into the still forces that lie behind these things.

It is strange that all the memories that come have two qualities. Above all, they are completely calm. Even if they are not really calm, they become calm. They are silent visions that speak to me through looks and gestures, without a word. Their silence alarms me and forces me to grip my sleeve and my rifle. Otherwise, I might surrender to the freedom and temptation they offer. My body would expand and gently pass away into the quiet forces behind these things.

They are quiet in this way, because quietness is so unattainable for us now. At the front there is no quietness and the curse of the front reaches so far that we never pass beyond it. Even in the remote depots and rest-areas the droning and the muffled noise of shelling is always in our ears. We are never so far off that it is no more to be heard. But these last few days it has been unbearable.

They are quiet like this because quiet is so hard for us to find now. There is no quiet at the front, and its curse reaches so far that we can never escape it. Even in distant depots and rest areas, the droning and muffled sound of shelling is always in our ears. We are never far enough away that we cannot hear it. But these last few days, the noise has been unbearable.

Their stillness is the reason why these memories of former times do not awaken desire so much as sorrow—a strange, inapprehensible melancholy. Once we had such desires—but they return not. They are past, they belong to another world that is gone from us. In the barracks they called forth a rebellious, wild craving for their return; for then they were still bound to us, we belonged to them and they to us, even though we were already absent from them. They appeared in the soldiers' songs which we sang as we marched between the glow of the dawn and the black silhouettes of the forests to drill on the moor, they were a powerful remembrance that was in us and came from us.

Because the memories of earlier times are so still, they stir sorrow rather than desire, a strange, incomprehensible sadness. Once we had such desires, but they do not return. They are gone, belonging to another world that we have lost. In the barracks, those memories made us rebel and long fiercely for that world to return. Back then, we were still connected to it. We belonged to that world, and it belonged to us, even though we were already away from it. The memories appeared in the soldiers’ songs we sang as we marched to drill on the moor. We marched between the glow of dawn and the dark outlines of the forests. The memories were powerful, living within us and coming from us.

But here in the trenches they are completely lost to us. They arise no more; we are dead and they stand remote on the horizon, they are an apparition, a mysterious reflection drawing us home, that we fear and love without hope. They are strong and our desire is strong—but they are unattainable, and we know it.

But here in the trenches, they are completely lost to us. They no longer rise up. We are dead, and they stand far away on the horizon. They are a ghostly vision, a mysterious reflection drawing us home. We fear and love them without hope. They are strong, and so is our desire. But they are beyond our reach, and we know it.

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not arise again. We long to be in them and to move in them; we long to remember and to love them and to be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.

And even if we could return to the scenes of our youth, we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence they had on us could not return. We long to be in those places and move through them. We long to remember and love them, and to be moved by seeing them. But it would be like looking at a photograph of a dead comrade. Those are his features, his face. The days we spent together come back to life in our memories, filled with sadness. But the photograph is not the man himself.

We could never again, as the same beings, take part in those scenes. It was not any recognition of their beauty and their significance that attracted us, but the communion, the feeling of a comradeship with the things and events of our existence, which cut us off and made the world of our parents a thing incomprehensible to us—for then we surrendered ourselves to events and were lost in them, and the least little thing was enough to carry us down the stream of eternity. Perhaps it was only the privilege of our youth, but as yet we recognized no limits and saw nowhere an end. We had that thrill of expectation in the blood which united us with the course of our days.

We could never again take part in those scenes as the same people. What drew us was not a recognition of their beauty and importance. It was a sense of connection and companionship with the things and events in our lives. That feeling set us apart and made our parents’ world impossible for us to understand. For then we gave ourselves over to events and lost ourselves in them. The smallest thing was enough to carry us along the stream of eternity. Perhaps that was only a privilege of youth, but we had not yet recognized any limits or seen an end anywhere. The thrill of expectation was in our blood, connecting us to the course of our days.

To-day we would pass through the scenes of our youth like travellers. We are burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We are no longer untroubled—we are indifferent. We long to be there; but could we live there?

Today, we would pass through the places of our youth like travelers. Hard facts have burned us out. Like tradesmen, we understand distinctions. Like butchers, we understand what is necessary. We are no longer carefree. We are indifferent. We long to be there, but could we live there?

We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost.

We are lonely and helpless like children, but as experienced as old men. We are crude, sad, and shallow. I believe we are lost.

* *

* *

My hands grow cold and my flesh creeps; and yet the night is warm. Only the mist is cold, this mysterious mist that trails the dead before us and sucks from them their last, creeping life. By morning they will be pale and green and their blood congealed and black.

My hands grow cold and my skin crawls, even though the night is warm. Only the mist is cold. This mysterious mist drifts after the dead before us, sucking out their last traces of life. By morning, the dead will be pale and green, and their blood will be clotted and black.

Still the parachute-rockets shoot up and cast their pitiless light over the stony landscape, which is full of craters and frozen lights like a moon. The blood beneath my skin brings fear and restlessness into my thoughts. They become feeble and tremble, they desire warmth and life. They cannot endure without sympathy and communion, they are disordered before the naked picture of despair.

The parachute flares keep shooting up, casting their merciless light over the rocky landscape. It is full of craters and frozen lights, like a moon. The blood beneath my skin fills my thoughts with fear and restlessness. My thoughts grow weak and tremble. They long for warmth and life. They cannot endure without sympathy and companionship. The bare sight of despair throws them into confusion.

I hear the rattle of the mess-tins and immediately feel a strong desire for warm food; it would do me good and comfort me. Painfully I force myself to wait until I am relieved.

I hear the mess tins rattle and immediately crave warm food. It would do me good and comfort me. With difficulty, I force myself to wait until I am relieved.

Then I go into the dug-out and find a mug of barley. It is cooked in fat and tastes good, I eat it slowly. I remain quiet, though the others are in a better mood, for the shelling has died down.

Then I go into the dugout and find a mug of barley. It was cooked in fat and tastes good. I eat it slowly. I stay quiet, though the others are in a better mood because the shelling has died down.

* *

* *

The days go by and the incredible hours follow one another as a matter of course. Attacks alternate with counter-attacks and slowly the dead pile up in the field of craters between the trenches. We are able to bring in most of the wounded that do not lie too far off. But many have long to wait and we listen to them dying.

The days pass, and the unbelievable hours follow one another as if they were ordinary. Attacks alternate with counterattacks, and the dead slowly pile up in the cratered field between the trenches. We can bring in most of the wounded who are not too far away. But many have to wait a long time, and we listen to them die.

For one of them we search two days in vain. He must be lying on his belly and unable to turn over. Otherwise it is hard to understand why we cannot find him; for it is only when a man has his mouth close to the ground that it is impossible to gauge the direction of his cry.

We search for one of them for two days but cannot find him. He must be lying on his stomach, unable to turn over. Otherwise, it is hard to understand why we cannot find him. Only when a man’s mouth is close to the ground is it impossible to tell where his cries are coming from.

He must have been badly hit—one of those nasty wounds, neither so severe that they exhaust the body at once and a man dreams on in a half-swoon, nor so light that a man endures the pain in the hope of becoming well again. Kat thinks he has either a broken pelvis or a shot through the spine. His chest cannot have been injured otherwise he would not have such strength to cry out. And if it were any other kind of wound it would be possible to see him moving.

He must have been badly wounded. It is one of those terrible wounds that are neither too severe nor too slight. A more severe wound would drain a man's strength at once and leave him dreaming in a half-conscious state. A lighter wound would let him bear the pain, hoping to recover. Kat thinks he has either a broken pelvis or a bullet through his spine. His chest cannot be injured, or he would not have the strength to cry out like that. And if he had any other kind of wound, we would be able to see him moving.

He grows gradually hoarser. The voice sounds so desperate that it prevails everywhere. The first night some of our fellows go out three times to look for him. But when they think they have located him and crawl across, next time they hear the voice it seems to come from somewhere else altogether.

His voice grows gradually hoarser. It sounds so desperate that it can be heard everywhere. On the first night, some of our men go out three times to look for him. But when they think they have found him, they crawl over to the spot. The next time they hear his voice, it seems to come from somewhere else entirely.

We search in vain until dawn. We scrutinize the field all day with glasses, but discover nothing. On the second day the calls are fainter; that will be because his lips and mouth have become dry.

We search until dawn but find nothing. All day, we scan the field through binoculars, but see nothing. On the second day, the calls are fainter. That must be because his lips and mouth have dried out.

Our company commander has promised special leave with three days extra to anyone who finds him. That is a powerful inducement, but we would do all that is possible without that; for his cry is terrible. Kat and Kropp even go out in the afternoon, and Albert gets the lobe of his ear shot off in consequence. It is to no purpose, they come back without him.

Our company commander has promised special leave with three extra days to anyone who finds him. That is a powerful incentive, but we would do everything possible without it, because his cries are terrible. Kat and Kropp even go out in the afternoon, and Albert has his earlobe shot off as a result. But their search is useless. They come back without him.

It is easy to understand what he cries. At first he called only for help—the second night he must have some delirium, he talks with his wife and his children, we often detect the name Elise. To-day he merely weeps. By evening the voice dwindles to a croaking. But it persists still through the whole night. We hear it so distinctly because the wind blows toward our line. In the morning when we suppose he must already have long gone to his rest, there comes across to us one last gurgling rattle.

It is easy to understand what he cries out. At first, he called only for help. On the second night, he must be delirious. He talks to his wife and children, and we often hear the name Elise. Today he only weeps. By evening, his voice fades to a croak. But it continues through the whole night. We hear it so clearly because the wind blows toward our line. In the morning, we assume he must have died long ago. Then one last gurgling rattle reaches us.

The days are hot and the dead lie unburied. We cannot fetch them all in, if we did we should not know what to do with them. The shells will bury them. Many have their bellies swollen up like balloons. They hiss, belch, and make movements. The gases in them make noises.

The days are hot, and the dead lie unburied. We cannot bring them all in. Even if we did, we would not know what to do with them. The shells will bury them. Many have bellies swollen like balloons. They hiss, belch, and move. The gases inside them make noises.

The sky is blue and without clouds. In the evening it grows sultry and the heat rises from the earth. When the wind blows toward us it brings the smell of blood, which is heavy and sweet. This deathly exhalation from the shell holes seems to be a mixture of chloroform and putrefaction, and fills us with nausea and retching.

The sky is blue and cloudless. In the evening, the air grows hot and humid, and heat rises from the earth. When the wind blows toward us, it brings the heavy, sweet smell of blood. This deadly smell from the shell holes seems like a mix of chloroform and decay. It makes us feel sick and retch.

* *

* *

The nights become quiet and the hunt for copper driving-bands and the silken parachutes of the French star-shells begins. Why the driving-bands are so desirable no one knows exactly. The collectors merely assert that they are valuable. Some have collected so many that they will stoop under the weight of them when we go back.

The nights grow quiet, and the hunt begins for copper driving bands and silk parachutes from French star shells. No one knows exactly why the driving bands are so desirable. The collectors just say they are valuable. Some have collected so many that they will be bent over under the weight when we go back.

But Haie at least gives a reason. He intends to give them to his girl to supplement her garters. At this the Friesians explode with mirth. They slap their knees: "By Jove though, he's a wit, Haie is, he's got brains." Tjaden especially can hardly contain himself; he takes the largest of the rings in his hand and every now and then puts his leg through it to show how much slack there is.

But Haie at least gives a reason. He plans to give them to his girl to add to her garters. The Friesians burst out laughing. They slap their knees: "Well, Haie's a real joker, he is. He's got brains." Tjaden can hardly contain himself. He picks up the largest ring and keeps putting his leg through it to show how loose it is.

"Haie, man, she must have legs like, legs——" his thoughts mount somewhat higher, "and a behind too she must have, like a—like an elephant!"

"Haie, man, she must have legs like, legs..." His thoughts move a little higher. "And she must have a behind too, like a... like an elephant!"

He cannot get over it. "I wish I could play hot-hand with her once, my hat——"

He can't get over it. "I wish I could play hot-hand with her just once. Wow..."

Haie beams, proud that his girl should receive so much appreciation.

Haie beams, proud that his girl is getting so much appreciation.

"She's a nice bit," he says with self-satisfaction.

"She's hot," he says smugly.

The parachutes are turned to more practical uses. According to the size of the bust three or perhaps four will make a blouse. Kropp and I use them as handkerchiefs. The others send them home. If the women could see at what risk these bits of rag are often obtained, they would be horrified.

The parachutes are put to more practical uses. Depending on a woman’s bust size, three or perhaps four will make a blouse. Kropp and I use them as handkerchiefs. The others send them home. If the women could see the risks often taken to get these bits of cloth, they would be horrified.

Kat surprises Tjaden endeavouring with perfect equanimity to knock the driving-band off a dud. If anyone else had tried it the thing would have exploded, but Tjaden always has his luck with him.

Kat catches Tjaden calmly trying to knock the driving band off an unexploded shell. If anyone else had tried it, the shell would have exploded. But Tjaden always has luck on his side.

One morning two butterflies play in front of our trench. They are brimstone-butterflies, with red spots on their yellow wings. What can they be looking for here? There is not a plant nor a flower for miles. They settle on the teeth of a skull. The birds too are just as carefree, they have long since accustomed themselves to the war. Every morning larks ascend from No Man's Land. A year ago we watched them nesting; the young ones grew up too.

One morning, two butterflies play in front of our trench. They are brimstone butterflies, with red spots on their yellow wings. What could they be looking for here? There isn’t a plant or flower for miles. They land on the teeth of a skull. The birds are just as carefree. They got used to the war long ago. Every morning, larks rise from No Man’s Land. A year ago, we watched them build nests. Their young grew up too.

We have a spell from the rats in the trench. They are in No Man's Land—we know what for. They grow fat; when we see one we have a crack at it. At night we hear again the rolling behind the enemy lines. All day we have only the normal shelling, so that we are able to repair the trenches. There is always plenty of amusement, the airmen see to that. There are countless fights for us to watch every day.

We get a break from the rats in the trench. They are in No Man's Land, and we know why. They grow fat. When we see one, we take a shot at it. At night, we hear the rolling again behind the enemy lines. All day, we have only the usual shelling, so we can repair the trenches. There is always plenty of entertainment. The airmen see to that. We watch countless aerial fights every day.

Battle planes don't trouble us, but the observation planes we hate like the plague; they put the artillery on to us. A couple of minutes after they appear, shrapnel and high-explosives begin to drop on us. We lose eleven men in one day that way, and five of them stretcher-bearers. Two are so smashed that Tjaden remarks you could scrape them off the wall of the trench with a spoon and bury them in a mess-tin. Another has the lower part of his body and his legs torn off. Dead, his chest leans against the side of the trench, his face is lemon-yellow, in his beard stills burns a cigarette. It glows until it dies out on his lips.

Battle planes don't bother us, but we hate observation planes like the plague. They direct artillery fire at us. A couple of minutes after they appear, shrapnel and high explosive shells start falling on us. We lose eleven men that way in one day, five of them stretcher-bearers. Two are so badly smashed that Tjaden says you could scrape them off the trench wall with a spoon. You could bury them in a mess tin. Another man's lower body and legs have been torn off. His chest leans against the side of the trench. He is dead, his face is lemon yellow, and a cigarette still burns in his beard. It glows until it goes out on his lips.

We put the dead in a large shell-hole. So far there are three layers, one on top of the other.

We put the dead in a large shell crater. So far, there are three layers of bodies, one on top of another.

* *

* *

Suddenly the shelling begins to pound again. Soon we are sitting up once more with the rigid tenseness of blank anticipation.

Suddenly, the shelling starts pounding again. Soon we are sitting up again, stiff with tense, empty anticipation.

Attack, counter-attack, charge, repulse—these are words, but what things they signify! We have lost a good many men, mostly recruits. Reinforcements have again been sent up to our sector. It is one of the new regiments, composed of young fellows called up during last year. They have had hardly any training, and are sent into the field with only a theoretical knowledge. They do know what a hand-grenade is, it is true, but they have very little idea of cover, and what is most important of all, have no eye for it. A fold in the ground has to be quite eighteen inches high before they can see it.

Attack, counterattack, charge, repulse. These are just words, but what things they stand for! We have lost a lot of men, mostly recruits. Reinforcements have again been sent to our sector. They belong to one of the new regiments, made up of young men called up last year. They have had hardly any training and are sent into the field with only theoretical knowledge. They do know what a hand grenade is. But they know very little about cover, and, most importantly, they have no eye for it. A fold in the ground has to be at least eighteen inches high before they can see it.

Although we need reinforcement, the recruits give us almost more trouble than they are worth. They are helpless in this grim fighting area, they fall like flies. The present method of fighting from posts demands knowledge and experience; a man must have a feeling for the contours of the ground, an ear for the sound and character of the shells, must be able to decide beforehand where they will drop, how they will burst, and how to shelter from them.

Although we need reinforcements, the recruits cause us almost more trouble than they are worth. They are helpless in this grim fighting area and fall like flies. The current method of fighting from posts requires knowledge and experience. A man must have a feel for the shape of the ground and an ear for the sound and character of shells. He must be able to judge in advance where shells will land, how they will burst, and how to shelter from them.

The young recruits of course know none of these things. They get killed simply because they can hardly tell shrapnel from high-explosive, they are mown down because they are listening anxiously to the roar of the big coal-boxes falling far in the rear, and miss the light, piping whistle of the low spreading little daisy-cutters. They flock together like sheep instead of scattering, and even the wounded are shot down like hares by the airmen.

The young recruits, of course, know none of these things. They get killed simply because they can hardly tell shrapnel from high-explosive shells. They listen anxiously to the roar of the big coal-boxes landing far behind them. Because of this, they miss the faint, high-pitched whistle of the small daisy-cutters that spread low across the ground. So they get mown down. They crowd together like sheep instead of scattering, and airmen shoot down even the wounded like hares.

Their pale turnip faces, their pitiful clenched hands, the miserable courage of these poor devils, the desperate charges and attacks made by these poor brave devils, who are so terrified that they dare not cry out loudly, but with battered chests and torn bellies and arms and legs only whimper softly for their mothers and cease as soon as one looks at them.

Their pale, turnip-like faces, their pitiful clenched hands, the miserable courage of these poor devils. The desperate charges and attacks of these poor, brave devils. They are so terrified that they dare not cry out loud. With battered chests, torn bellies, and wounded arms and legs, they only whimper softly for their mothers. And they stop as soon as someone looks at them.

Their sharp, downy, dead faces have the awful expressionlessness of dead children.

Their sharp, downy, dead faces are as horribly blank as the faces of dead children.

It brings a lump into the throat to see how they go over, and run and fall. A man would like to spank them, they are so stupid, and to take them by the arm and lead them away from here where they have no business to be. They wear grey coats and trousers and boots, but for most of them the uniform is far too big, it hangs on their limbs, their shoulders are too narrow, their bodies too slight; no uniform was ever made to these childish measurements.

It brings a lump to your throat to see them go over, run, and fall. You want to spank them for being so stupid. You want to take them by the arm and lead them away from here, where they have no business being. They wear gray coats, trousers, and boots, but the uniforms are far too big for most of them. The clothes hang loose on their limbs. Their shoulders are too narrow, and their bodies are too slight. No uniform was ever made for bodies as small as children's.

Between five and ten recruits fall to every old hand.

For every experienced soldier who dies, five to ten recruits die.

A surprise gas-attack carries off a lot of them. They have not yet learned what to do. We found one dug-out full of them, with blue heads and black lips. Some of them in a shell hole took their masks off too soon; they did not know that the gas lies longest in the hollows; when they saw others on top without masks they pulled theirs off too and swallowed enough to scorch their lungs. Their condition is hopeless, they choke to death with hæmorrhages and suffocation.

A surprise gas attack kills many of them. They have not yet learned what to do. We found a dugout full of them, their heads blue and their lips black. Some in a shell hole took their masks off too soon. They did not know that gas lingers longest in hollows. When they saw others above them without masks, they took theirs off too. They breathed in enough gas to burn their lungs. There is no hope for them. They choke to death, bleeding and unable to breathe.

* *

* *

In one part of the trench I suddenly run into Himmelstoss. We dive into the same dug-out. Breathless we are all lying one beside the other waiting for the charge.

In one part of the trench, I suddenly run into Himmelstoss. We dive into the same dugout. We all lie side by side, breathless, waiting for the charge.

When we run out again, although I am very excited, I suddenly think: "Where's Himmelstoss?" Quickly I jump back into the dug-out and find him with a small scratch lying in a corner pretending to be wounded. His face looks sullen. He is in a panic; he is new to it too. But it makes me mad that the young recruits should be out there and he here.

When we run out again, I’m very worked up, but suddenly I think: "Where's Himmelstoss?" I quickly jump back into the dugout. I find him lying in a corner, pretending to be wounded, though he only has a small scratch. His face looks sullen. He’s in a panic. He’s new to this too. But it makes me angry that the young recruits are out there while he’s in here.

"Get out!" I spit.

"Get out!" I spit.

He does not stir, his lips quiver, his moustache twitches.

He does not move. His lips tremble, and his mustache twitches.

"Out!" I repeat.

"Out!" I repeat.

He draws up his legs, crouches back against the wall, and shows his teeth like a cur.

He pulls up his legs, crouches against the wall, and bares his teeth like a dog.

I seize him by the arm and try to pull him up. He barks.

I grab him by the arm and try to pull him up. He barks.

That is too much for me. I grab him by the neck and shake him like a sack, his head jerks from side to side.

That is too much for me. I grab him by the neck and shake him like a sack. His head jerks from side to side.

"You lump, will you get out—you hound, you skunk, sneak out of it, would you?" His eye becomes glassy, I knock his head against the wall—"You cow"—I kick him in the ribs—"You swine"—I push him toward the door and shove him out head first.

"You idiot, get out! You dog, you skunk, trying to sneak out of it, are you?" His eyes glaze over. I knock his head against the wall. "You cow." I kick him in the ribs. "You pig." I push him toward the door and shove him out headfirst.

Another wave of our attack has just come up. A lieutenant is with them. He sees us and yells; "Forward, forward, join in, follow." And the word of command does what all my banging could not. Himmelstoss hears the order, looks round him as if awakened, and follows on.

Another wave of our attack has just arrived. A lieutenant is with them. He sees us and yells, "Forward, forward, join in, follow." His command does what all my banging could not. Himmelstoss hears the order and looks around as if waking up. Then he follows.

I come after and watch him go over. Once more he is the smart Himmelstoss of the parade-ground, he has even outstripped the lieutenant and is far ahead.

I follow and watch him go over. Once again, he is the sharp Himmelstoss of the parade ground. He has even overtaken the lieutenant and is far ahead.

Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades—words, words, but they hold the horror of the world.

Bombardment, barrage, curtain fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine guns, hand grenades. Words, words, but they hold the horror of the world.

Our faces are encrusted, our thoughts are devastated, we are weary to death; when the attack comes we shall have to strike many of the men with our fists to waken them and make them come with us—our eyes are burnt, our hands are torn, our knees bleed, our elbows are raw.

Our faces are caked with grime, our thoughts are shattered, and we are tired to death. When the attack comes, we will have to punch many of the men awake and make them come with us. Our eyes burn, our hands are torn, our knees bleed, and our elbows are raw.

How long has it been? Weeks—months—years? Only days. We see time pass in the colourless faces of the dying, we cram food into us, we run, we throw, we shoot, we kill, we lie about, we are feeble and spent, and nothing supports us but the knowledge that there are still feebler, still more spent, still more helpless ones there who, with staring eyes, look upon us as gods that escape death many times.

How long has it been? Weeks, months, years? Only days. We see time pass in the pale faces of the dying. We stuff ourselves with food. We run, we throw, we shoot, we kill, we lie around. We are weak and exhausted. Nothing keeps us going but the knowledge that others there are even weaker, more exhausted, and more helpless. They stare at us as if we were gods who escape death again and again.

In the few hours of rest we teach them. "There, see that waggle-top? That's a mortar coming. Keep down, it will go clean over. But if it comes this way, then run for it. You can run from a mortar."

During our few hours of rest, we teach them. "See that waggle-top? That's a mortar coming. Stay down, it will pass right over you. But if it comes this way, run. You can outrun a mortar."

We sharpen their ears to the malicious, hardly audible buzz of the smaller shells that are not so easily distinguished. They must pick them out from the general din by their insect-like hum—we explain to them that these are far more dangerous than the big ones that can be heard long beforehand.

We train them to hear the malicious, barely audible buzz of the smaller shells, which are harder to distinguish. They must pick out the insect-like hum from the general din. We explain that these shells are far more dangerous than the big ones, which can be heard long before they arrive.

We show them how to take cover from aircraft, how to simulate a dead man when one is overrun in an attack, how to time hand-grenades so that they explode half a second before hitting the ground; we teach them to fling themselves into holes as quick as lightning before the shells with instantaneous fuses; we show them how to clean up a trench with a handful of bombs; we explain the difference between the fuse-length of the enemy bombs and our own; we put them wise to the sound of gas shells;—show them all the tricks that can save them from death.

We show them how to take cover from aircraft and how to play dead if an attack overruns them. We teach them to time hand grenades to explode half a second before they hit the ground. We teach them to dive into holes like lightning when shells with instantaneous fuses are coming. We show them how to clear a trench with a handful of bombs. We explain the difference between the fuse lengths of enemy bombs and our own. We teach them to recognize the sound of gas shells. We show them all the tricks that can save them from death.

They listen, they are docile—but when it begins again, in their excitement they do everything wrong.

They listen and obey. But when it starts again, they get excited and do everything wrong.

Haie Westhus drags off with a great wound in his back through which the lung pulses at every breath. I can only press his hand; "It's all up, Paul," he groans and bites his arm because of the pain.

Haie Westhus drags himself away with a huge wound in his back. His lung pulses through the wound with every breath. I can only squeeze his hand. "It's all over, Paul," he groans and bites his arm because of the pain.

We see men living with their skulls blown open; we see soldiers run with their two feet cut off, they stagger on their splintered stumps into the next shell-hole; a lance-corporal crawls a mile and a half on his hands dragging his smashed knee after him; another goes to the dressing station and over his clasped hands bulge his intestines; we see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces; we find one man who has held the artery of his arm in his teeth for two hours in order not to bleed to death. The sun goes down, night comes, the shells whine, life is at an end.

We see men still alive with their skulls blown open. We see soldiers run with both feet cut off. They stagger on their shattered stumps into the next shell hole. A lance-corporal crawls a mile and a half on his hands, dragging his crushed knee behind him. Another goes to the dressing station with his intestines bulging over his clasped hands. We see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces. We find a man who has held the artery in his arm between his teeth for two hours to keep from bleeding to death. The sun goes down, night comes, the shells whine, life is at an end.

Still the little piece of convulsed earth in which we lie is held. We have yielded no more than a few hundred yards of it as a prize to the enemy. But on every yard there lies a dead man.

We still hold the small piece of torn-up ground where we lie. We have given the enemy no more than a few hundred yards of it. But a dead man lies on every yard.

* *

* *

We have been relieved. The wheels roll beneath us, we stand dully, and when the call "Mind—wire" comes, we bend our knees. It was summer when we came up, the trees were still green, now it is autumn and the night is grey and wet. The lorries stop, we climb out—a confused heap, a remnant of many names. On either side stand people, dark, calling out the numbers of the regiments, the companies. And at each call a little group separates itself off, a small handful of dirty, pallid soldiers, a dreadfully small handful, and a dreadfully small remnant.

We have been relieved. The wheels roll beneath us as we stand in a daze. When someone calls "Watch out, wire," we bend our knees. It was summer when we came up, and the trees were still green. Now it is autumn, and the night is gray and wet. The trucks stop, and we climb out in a confused heap, the remnants of many named units. People stand on either side, dark figures calling out regiment and company numbers. At each call, a little group separates from the rest. Each group is a small handful of dirty, pale soldiers, a dreadfully small handful, a dreadfully small remnant.

Now someone is calling the number of our company, it is, yes, the Company-Commander, he has got one too, his arm is in a sling. We go over to him and I recognize Kat and Albert, we stand together, lean against each other, and look at one another.

Someone is calling our company number. Yes, it’s the company commander. He’s been hit too, and his arm is in a sling. We go over to him, and I recognize Kat and Albert. We stand together, lean against each other, and look at one another.

And we hear the number of our company called again and again. He will call a long time, they do not hear him in the hospitals and shell-holes.

And we hear our company’s number called again and again. He will keep calling for a long time. They cannot hear him in the hospitals and shell holes.

Once again: "Second Company, this way!"

Again: "Second Company, this way!"

And then more softly: "Nobody else Second Company?"

Then, more softly: "Is there nobody else from Second Company?"

He is silent, and then huskily he says: "Is that all?" and gives the order: "Number!"

He is silent. Then he asks in a husky voice, "Is that all?" He gives the order: "Number!"

The morning is grey, it was still summer when we came up, and we were one hundred and fifty strong. Now we freeze, it is autumn, the leaves rustle, the voices flutter out wearily: "One—two—three—four——" and cease at thirty-two. And there is a long silence before the voice asks: "Anyone else?"—and waits and then says softly: "In squads——" and then breaks off and is only able to finish: "Second Company——" with difficulty: "Second Company—march easy!"

The morning is grey. It was still summer when we came up, and there were 150 of us. Now it is autumn, and we are freezing. The leaves rustle. The voices call out wearily: "One, two, three, four..." They stop at thirty-two. After a long silence, the voice asks: "Anyone else?" The voice waits, then says softly: "In squads..." It breaks off and can only finish with difficulty: "Second Company... Second Company, march easy!"

A line, a short line trudges off into the morning.

A line, a short line, trudges off into the morning.

Thirty-two men.

Thirty-two men.