Chapter 7

They have taken us farther back than usual to a field depot so that we can be re-organized. Our company needs more than a hundred reinforcements.

They have taken us farther back than usual to a field depot so we can reorganize. Our company needs more than a hundred reinforcements.

In the meantime, when we are off duty, we loaf around. After a couple of days Himmelstoss comes up to us. He has had the bounce knocked out of him since he has been in the trenches and wants to get on good terms with us. I am willing enough, because I saw how he brought Haie Westhus in when he was hit in the back. Besides he's decent enough to treat us at the canteen when we are out of funds. Only Tjaden is still reserved and suspicious.

In the meantime, we lounge around when we are off duty. After a couple of days, Himmelstoss comes over to us. The trenches have knocked the swagger out of him, and he wants to be on good terms with us. I’m willing enough because I saw how he brought Haie Westhus in after Haie was hit in the back. Besides, he’s decent enough to treat us at the canteen when we’re out of money. Only Tjaden is still guarded and suspicious.

But he is won over, too, when Himmelstoss tells us that he is taking the place of the sergeant-cook who has gone on leave. As a proof he produces on the spot two pounds of sugar for us and a half-pound of butter specially for Tjaden. He even sees to it that we are detailed the next two or three days to the cook house for potato and turnip peeling. The grub he gives us there is real officers' fare.

But he is won over too when Himmelstoss tells us he is filling in for the sergeant-cook, who is on leave. To prove it, he produces two pounds of sugar for us and half a pound of butter especially for Tjaden. He even makes sure we are assigned to peel potatoes and turnips in the cookhouse for the next two or three days. The food he gives us there is real officers’ fare.

Thus for the moment we have the two things a soldier needs for contentment: good food and rest. That's not much when one comes to think of it. A couple of years ago we would have despised ourselves terribly. But now we are quite happy. It is all a matter of habit—even the front line.

For now, we have the two things a soldier needs to be content: good food and rest. When you think about it, that's not much. A couple of years ago, we would have been deeply ashamed of ourselves. But now we're quite happy. Everything is a matter of habit, even the front line.

Habit is the explanation of why we seem to forget things so quickly. Yesterday we were under fire, to-day we act the fool and go foraging through the countryside, to-morrow we go up to the trenches again. We forget nothing really. But so long as we have to stay here in the field, the front-line days, when they are past, sink down in us like a stone; they are too serious for us to be able to reflect on them at once. If we did that, we should have been destroyed long ago. I soon found out this much:—terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks;—but it kills, if a man thinks about it.

Habit explains why we seem to forget things so quickly. Yesterday we were under fire. Today we fool around and forage through the countryside. Tomorrow we go back to the trenches. We don’t really forget anything. But as long as we have to stay here in the field, the days at the front sink inside us like a stone once they are over. They are too serious for us to reflect on them right away. If we did, we would have been destroyed long ago. I soon learned this: a man can endure terror as long as he simply ducks. But terror kills him if he thinks about it.

Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line, because that is the only thing which brings us through safely, so we turn into wags and loafers when we are out resting. We can do nothing else, it is a sheer necessity. We want to live at any price; so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they might be ornamental enough in peace time, would be out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying, they will have a job with Hans Kramer's body at the Judgment Day, piecing it together after a direct hit; Martens has no legs any more, Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead, there are a hundred and twenty wounded men lying somewhere or other; it is a damnable business, but what has it to do with us now—we live. If it were possible for us to save them, then it would be seen how much we cared—we would have a shot at it though we went under ourselves; for we can be damned quixotic when we like; fear we do not know much about—terror of death, yes; but that is a different matter, that is physical.

Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line, we become jokers and layabouts when we rest. Becoming animals is the only way to get through safely. And we have no choice but to act like jokers and layabouts while resting. We want to live at any price. So we cannot burden ourselves with feelings that might be fine enough in peacetime but are out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, and Haie Westhus is dying. On Judgment Day, they will have a hard time putting Hans Kramer's body back together after a direct hit. Martens has no legs anymore. Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, and Hammerling is dead. There are 120 wounded men lying in one place or another. It is a damnable business, but what does it have to do with us now? We are alive. If we could save them, people would see how much we cared. We would try, even if we died ourselves. We can be recklessly idealistic when we choose. We do not know much about fear. We do know the terror of death, but that is different. That is physical.

But our comrades are dead, we cannot help them, they have their rest—and who knows what is waiting for us? We will make ourselves comfortable and sleep, and eat as much as we can stuff into our bellies, and drink and smoke so that the hours are not wasted. Life is short.

But our comrades are dead, and we cannot help them. They are at rest, and who knows what is waiting for us? We will get comfortable and sleep. We will eat as much as we can stuff into our bellies, and drink and smoke so the hours are not wasted. Life is short.

* *

* *

The terror of the front sinks deep down when we turn our backs upon it; we make grim, coarse jests about it, when a man dies, then we say he had nipped off his turd, and so we speak of everything; that keeps us from going mad; as long as we take it that way we maintain our own resistance.

When we turn our backs on the front, its terror sinks deep inside us. We make grim, crude jokes about it. When a man dies, we say he has pinched off his turd. We talk about everything that way. That keeps us from going mad. As long as we treat things that way, we can keep resisting.

But we do not forget. It's all rot that they put in the war-news about the good humour of the troops, how they are arranging dances almost before they are out of the front-line. We don't act like that because we are in a good humour: we are in a good humour because otherwise we should go to pieces. If it were not so we could not hold out much longer; our humour becomes more bitter every month.

But we do not forget. All that stuff in the war news about the troops being in good spirits is nonsense. It says they arrange dances almost as soon as they leave the front line. We don't act like that because we're in good spirits. We're in good spirits because otherwise we would fall apart. If we weren't, we couldn't hold out much longer. Our humor grows more bitter every month.

And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again, and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.

And I know this: all these things sink into us like a stone while we are still in the war. After the war, they will awaken again, and then we will begin to untangle life and death.

The days, the weeks, the years out here shall come back again, and our dead comrades shall then stand up again and march with us, our heads shall be clear, we shall have a purpose, and so we shall march, our dead comrades beside us, the years at the Front behind us:—against whom, against whom?

The days, the weeks, the years out here will come back again. Our dead comrades will rise again and march with us. Our heads will be clear, and we will have a purpose. And so we will march, our dead comrades beside us and the years at the Front behind us. Against whom, against whom?

* *

* *

Some time ago there was an army theatre in these parts. Coloured posters of the performances are still sticking on a hoarding. With wide eyes Kropp and I stand in front of it. We can hardly credit that such things still exist. A girl in a light summer dress, with a red patent-leather belt about her hips! She is standing with one hand on a railing and with the other she holds a straw hat. She wears white stockings and white shoes, fine buckle shoes with high heels. Behind her smiles a blue lake with white-horses, at the side is a bright bay. She is a lovely girl with a delicate nose, red lips, and slender legs, wonderfully clean and well cared for, she certainly bathes twice a day and never has any dirt under her nails. At most perhaps a bit of sand from the beach.

Some time ago, there was an army theater around here. Colorful posters for its shows are still stuck to a billboard. Kropp and I stand in front of it, staring wide-eyed. We can hardly believe such things still exist. A girl in a light summer dress, with a red patent-leather belt around her hips! She stands with one hand on a railing and holds a straw hat in the other. She wears white stockings and fine white shoes with buckles and high heels. Behind her is a cheerful blue lake with whitecaps, and to one side is a bright bay. She is a lovely girl with a delicate nose, red lips, and slender legs. She is wonderfully clean and well cared for. She certainly bathes twice a day and never has dirt under her nails. At most, perhaps she has a little sand from the beach.

Beside her stands a man in white trousers, a bluejacket, and sailor's cap; but he interests us much less.

A man stands beside her, wearing white trousers, a blue jacket, and a sailor’s cap. But he interests us much less.

The girl on the poster is a wonder to us. We have quite forgotten that there are such things, and even now we hardly believe our eyes. We have seen nothing like it for years, nothing like it for happiness, beauty, and joy. That is peace time, that is as it should be; we feel excited.

The girl on the poster amazes us. We had completely forgotten that girls like her existed, and even now we can hardly believe our eyes. For years, we have seen nothing like her, nothing with such happiness, beauty, and joy. This is peacetime. This is how things should be, and we feel excited.

"Just look at those thin shoes though, she couldn't march many miles in those," I say, and then begin to feel silly, for it is absurd to stand in front of a picture like this and think of nothing but marching.

"Just look at those thin shoes, though. She couldn't march many miles in those," I say. Then I start to feel silly. It's absurd to stand in front of a picture like this and think of nothing but marching.

"How old would she be?" Kropp asks.

"How old would she be?" Kropp asks.

"About twenty-two at the most," I hazard.

"About twenty-two at most," I guess.

"Then she would be older than us! She is not more than seventeen, let me tell you!"

"Then she'd be older than us! I'm telling you, she's no more than seventeen!"

It gives us goose-flesh.

It gives us goosebumps.

"That would be good, Albert, what do you think?"

"That would be good, Albert. What do you think?"

He nods. "I have some white trousers at home too."

He nods. "I have some white pants at home too."

"White trousers," say I, "but a girl like that——"

"White pants," I say, "but a girl like that..."

We look askance at one another. There's not much to boast of here—two ragged, stained, and dirty uniforms. It is hopeless to compete.

We glance at each other uneasily. There isn't much to boast about here: two torn, stained, dirty uniforms. There's no hope of competing.

So we proceed to tear the young man with the white trousers off the hoarding, taking care not to damage the girl. That is something towards it.

So we tear the young man in white trousers off the billboard, taking care not to damage the girl. That is a step toward it.

"We could go and get deloused, anyway," Kropp then suggests.

"We could go get rid of our lice, anyway," Kropp suggests.

I am not very enthusiastic because it doesn't do one's clothes any good and a man is lousy again inside two hours. But when we have considered the picture once more, I declare myself willing. I even go farther.

I'm not very enthusiastic because it's bad for your clothes, and you're infested with lice again within two hours. But after we look at the picture again, I say I'm willing. I even go further.

"We might see if we could get a clean shirt as well——"

"We might see if we can get a clean shirt too..."

"Socks might be better," says Albert, not without reason.

"Socks might be better," says Albert, and he has a point.

"Yes, socks too perhaps. Let's go and explore a bit."

"Yes, maybe socks too. Let's look around a little."

Then Leer and Tjaden stroll up; they look at the poster and immediately the conversation becomes smutty. Leer was the first of our class to have intercourse, and he gave stirring details of it. After his fashion he enjoys himself over the picture, and Tjaden supports him nobly.

Then Leer and Tjaden stroll up. They look at the poster, and the conversation immediately turns dirty. Leer was the first in our class to have sex, and he gave us exciting details. In his own way, he enjoys himself over the picture, and Tjaden enthusiastically joins in.

It does not distress us exactly. Who isn't smutty is no soldier; it merely does not suit us at the moment, so we edge away and march off to the delousing station with the same feeling as if it were a swell gentlemen's outfitters.

It doesn't exactly upset us. Anyone who isn't dirty-minded isn't a soldier. It just doesn't suit us right now, so we edge away and march off to the delousing station. We feel as if we were going to a fancy men's clothing store.

* *

* *

The houses in which we are billeted lie near the canal. On the other side of the canal there are ponds flanked with poplars;—on the other side of the canal there are women too.

The houses where we are staying are near the canal. On the other side are ponds lined with poplar trees. On the other side of the canal there are women, too.

The houses on our side have been abandoned. On the other side though one occasionally sees inhabitants.

The houses on our side are empty. But on the other side, we occasionally see people who live there.

In the evening we go swimming. Three women come strolling along the bank. They walk slowly and don't look away, although we have no bathing suits.

In the evening, we go swimming. Three women stroll along the bank. They walk slowly and don't look away, although we aren't wearing bathing suits.

Leer calls out to them. They laugh and stop to watch us. We fling remarks at them in broken French, anything that comes into our heads, hastily and all jumbled together, anything to detain them. They are not specially wonderful pieces, but then where are such to be had about here?

Leer calls out to them. They laugh and stop to watch us. We call out whatever comes to mind in broken French, rushing and jumbling our words together, anything to keep them there. They are not especially attractive, but then where would you find women like that around here?

There is one slim little brunette. Her teeth gleam when she laughs. She has quick movements, her dress swings loosely about her legs. Although the water is cold we are very jovial and do our best to interest them so that they will stay. We try to make jokes and they answer with things we cannot understand; we laugh and beckon. Tjaden is more crafty. He runs into the house, gets a loaf of army bread and holds it up.

One of them is a slim, petite brunette. Her teeth shine when she laughs. She moves quickly, and her dress swings loosely around her legs. Although the water is cold, we are in high spirits. We do our best to interest the women so they will stay. We try to make jokes, and they answer with things we cannot understand. We laugh and wave them over. Tjaden is more clever. He runs into the house, gets a loaf of army bread, and holds it up.

That produces a great effect. They nod and beckon us to come over. But we don't dare to do that. It is forbidden to cross to the opposite bank. There are sentries on all the bridges. It's impossible without a pass. So we indicate that they should come over to us; but they shake their heads and point to the bridge. They are not allowed to pass either. They turn away and walk slowly down the canal, keeping along the tow-path all the way. We accompany them swimming. After a few hundred yards they turn off and point to a house that stands a little distance away among the trees and shrubbery.

That has a big effect. They nod and wave us over, but we don't dare go. Crossing to the other bank is forbidden. There are guards on all the bridges. We can't cross without a pass. So we gesture for them to come to us, but they shake their heads and point to the bridge. They aren't allowed to cross either. They turn away and walk slowly down the canal, staying on the towpath the whole way. We swim alongside them. After a few hundred yards, they turn off and point to a house a little way off among the trees and bushes.

Leer asks if they live there.

Leer asks if they live there.

They laugh—sure, that's their house.

They laugh. Sure, that's their house.

We call out to them that we would like to come, sometime when the guards cannot see us. At night. To-night.

We call out that we would like to come sometime when the guards can't see us. At night. Tonight.

They raise their hands, put them together, rest their faces on them and shut their eyes. They understand. The slim brunette does a two-step. The blonde girl twitters: "Bread—good——"

They raise their hands, press them together, rest their faces on them, and close their eyes. They understand. The slim brunette does a two-step. The blonde girl chirps: "Bread, good..."

Eagerly we assure them that we will bring some with us. And other tasty bits too, we roll our eyes and try to explain with our hands. Leer nearly drowns trying to demonstrate a sausage. If it were necessary we would promise them a whole quartermaster's store. They go off and frequently turn and look back. We climb out on the bank on our side of the canal and watch to see whether they go into the house for they might easily have been lying. Then we swim back.

We eagerly assure them that we will bring some with us. We roll our eyes and try to explain with our hands that we will bring other tasty things too. Leer nearly drowns trying to act out a sausage. If necessary, we would promise them a whole quartermaster's store. They walk away, turning to look back often. We climb out onto the bank on our side of the canal and watch to see if they go into the house. They could easily have been lying. Then we swim back.

No one can cross the bridge without leave, so we will simply have to swim over at night. We are full of excitement. We cannot last out without a drink, so we go to the canteen where there is beer and a kind of punch.

No one can cross the bridge without permission, so we’ll have to swim across at night. We’re excited. We can’t go without a drink, so we head to the canteen, where they serve beer and a kind of punch.

We drink punch and tell one another lying tales of our experiences. Each man gladly believes the other man's story, only waiting impatiently till he can cap it with a taller one. Our hands are fidgety, we smoke countless cigarettes, until Kropp says: "We might as well take them a couple of cigarettes too." So we put some inside our caps to keep them.

We drink punch and tell each other made-up stories about our experiences. Each man is happy to believe the others. He just waits impatiently for his turn to tell an even bigger lie. Our hands are restless, and we smoke countless cigarettes. Then Kropp says: "We might as well take them a couple of cigarettes too." So we put some in our caps to save them.

The sky turns apple-green. There are four of us, but only three can go; we must shake off Tjaden, so ply him with rum and punch until he rocks. As it turns dark we go to our billets, Tjaden in the centre. We are all glowing and full of a lust for adventure.

The sky turns apple-green. There are four of us, but only three can go. We have to get rid of Tjaden, so we give him rum and punch until he sways. As it gets dark, we go back to our quarters, with Tjaden in the middle. We are all flushed and eager for adventure.

The little brunette is mine, we settled that by cutting for her.

The petite brunette is mine. We cut cards to decide who got her.

Tjaden drops on his sack of straw and snores. Once he wakes up and grins so craftily that we are alarmed and begin to think he is cheating, and that we have given him the punch to no purpose. Then he drops back again and sleeps on.

Tjaden drops onto his sack of straw and snores. Once, he wakes up and grins so slyly that we grow alarmed. We begin to think he is cheating and that we gave him the punch for nothing. Then he drops back down and goes on sleeping.

We each get hold of a whole army loaf and wrap it up in newspaper. The cigarettes we put in too, as well as three good rations of liver-sausage that were issued to us this evening. That makes a decent present.

We each get a whole army loaf and wrap it in newspaper. We also wrap up the cigarettes and three good rations of liver sausage that we were given this evening. It makes a decent present.

We stow the things carefully in our boots; we have to take them to protect our feet against treading on wire and broken glass on the other bank. As we must swim for it we can take no other clothes. But it is not far and quite dark.

We pack the things carefully into our boots. We have to take the boots to protect our feet from wire and broken glass on the other bank. Because we have to swim across, we can't take any other clothes. But it isn't far, and it's quite dark.

We make off with our boots in our hands. Swiftly we slip into the water, lie on our backs and swim, holding the boots with their contents up over our heads.

We hurry off with our boots in our hands. We quickly slip into the water and swim on our backs, holding our boots and their contents above our heads.

We climb out carefully on the opposite bank, take out the packages and put on our boots. We put the things under our arms. And so, all wet and naked, clothed only in our boots, we break into a trot. We find the house at once. It lies among the trees. Leer trips over a root and skins his elbows.

We carefully climb out on the opposite bank, take out the packages, and put on our boots. We tuck the things under our arms. Then, wet and naked except for our boots, we start to jog. We find the house right away. It stands among the trees. Leer trips over a root and scrapes his elbows.

"No matter," he says gaily.

"Never mind," he says cheerfully.

The windows are shuttered. We slip round the house and try to peer through the cracks. Then we grow impatient. Suddenly Kropp hesitates:

The windows have shutters. We slip around the house and try to look through the cracks. Then we grow impatient. Suddenly, Kropp hesitates:

"What if there's a Major in with them?"

"What if there's a Major with them?"

"Then we just clear off," grins Leer, "he can try to read our regimental numbers here," and smacks his behind.

"Then we just leave," Leer says with a grin. "He can try to read our regimental numbers here." He smacks his behind.

The door of the court-yard stands open. Our boots make a great clatter. The house door opens, a chink of light shines through and a woman cries out in a scared voice.

The courtyard door is open. Our boots clatter loudly. The house door opens, letting a narrow beam of light shine through. A woman cries out in a frightened voice.

"Ssh, ssh! camerade—bon ami—" we say, and show our packages protestingly.

"Shh, shh! Comrade, good friend," we say, holding out our packages in protest.

The other two are now on the scene, the door opens wide and the light floods over us. They recognize us and all three burst into laughter at our appearance. They rock and sway in the doorway, they laugh so much. How supple their movements are!

The other two are here now. The door opens wide, and light floods over us. They recognize us, and all three burst out laughing at how we look. They laugh so hard that they rock and sway in the doorway. How gracefully they move!

"Un moment—" They disappear and throw us bits of clothing which we gladly wrap round ourselves. Then we venture in. A small lamp burns in the room, which is warm and smells a little of perfume. We unwrap our parcels and hand them over to the women. Their eyes shine, it is obvious that they are hungry.

"One moment." The women disappear and throw us pieces of clothing. We gladly wrap them around ourselves. Then we dare to go in. A small lamp burns in the warm room, which smells faintly of perfume. We unwrap our parcels and hand them to the women. Their eyes shine. They are obviously hungry.

Then we all become rather embarrassed. Leer makes the gestures of eating, and then they come to life again and bring out plates and knives and fall to on the food, and they hold up every slice of liver-sausage and admire it before they eat it, and we sit proudly by.

Then we all feel rather embarrassed. Leer mimes eating, and they come to life again. They bring out plates and knives and start eating. Before eating each slice of liver sausage, they hold it up and admire it. We sit by proudly.

They overwhelm us with their chatter;—we understand very little of it, but we listen and the words sound friendly. No doubt we all look very young. The little brunette strokes my hair and says what all the French women say: "La guerre—grand malheur—pauvres garçons——"

They overwhelm us with their chatter. We understand very little of it, but we listen, and the words sound friendly. No doubt we all look very young. The little brunette strokes my hair and says what all the French women say: "War, a great misfortune, poor boys."

I hold her arm tightly and press my lips into the palm of her hand. Her fingers close round my face. Close above me are her bewildering eyes, the soft brown of her skin and her red lips. Her mouth speaks words I do not understand. Nor do I fully understand her eyes; they seem to say more than we anticipated when we came here.

I hold her arm tightly and press my lips against her palm. Her fingers close around my face. Just above me are her puzzling eyes, her soft brown skin, and her red lips. She speaks words I do not understand. I do not fully understand her eyes either. They seem to say more than we expected when we came here.

There are other rooms adjoining. In passing I see Leer, he has made a great hit with the blonde. And he knows it, too. But I—I am lost in remoteness, in weakness, and in a passion to which I yield myself trustingly. My desires are strangely compounded of yearning and misery. I feel giddy, there is nothing here that a man can hold on to. We have left our boots at the door, they have given us slippers instead, and now nothing remains to recall for me the assurance and self-confidence of the soldier: no rifle, no belt, no tunic, no cap. I let myself drop into the unknown, come what may—yet, in spite of all, I feel somewhat afraid.

There are other rooms next to this one. As I pass, I see Leer. He has made a great impression on the blonde, and he knows it. But I am lost in a sense of distance and weakness, and in a passion I trustingly give myself over to. My desires are a strange mix of longing and misery. I feel dizzy. There is nothing here a man can hold on to. We left our boots at the door, and they gave us slippers instead. Now nothing reminds me of the certainty and confidence of a soldier: no rifle, no belt, no tunic, no cap. I let myself fall into the unknown, whatever may happen. Yet, despite everything, I feel a little afraid.

The little brunette contracts her brows when she is thinking; but when she talks they are still. And often the sound does not quite become a word but suffocates or floats away over me half-finished; an arch, a pathway, a comet. What have I known of it—what do I know of it?—The words of this foreign tongue, that I hardly understand, they caress me to a quietness, in which the room grows dim, and dissolves in the half light, and only the face above me lives and is clear.

The little brunette furrows her brow when she thinks, but it stays smooth when she talks. Often, a sound never quite becomes a word. It fades or floats over me, unfinished: an arch, a pathway, a comet. What have I known of it? What do I know of it? I hardly understand the words of this foreign language, but they soothe me into stillness. The room grows dim and dissolves in the half-light. Only the face above me is alive and clear.

How various is a face; but an hour ago it was strange and now it is touched with a tenderness that comes, not from it, but out of the night, the world and the blood, all these things seem to shine in it together. The objects in the room are touched by it and transformed, they become isolated, and I feel almost awed at the sight of my clear skin when the light of the lamp falls upon it and the cool, brown hand passes over it.

How much a face can change. Just an hour ago it was unfamiliar, but now it is touched with tenderness. The tenderness comes not from the face, but from the night, the world, and the blood. All these things seem to shine together in the face. The tenderness touches and transforms the objects in the room too. Each one stands apart. I feel almost awed when the lamplight falls on my clear skin and the cool, brown hand passes over it.

How different all this is from the conditions in the soldier's brothels, to which we are allowed to go, and where we have to wait in long queues. I wish I never thought of them; but desire turns my mind to them involuntarily and I am afraid, for it might be impossible ever to be free of them again.

How different all this is from the soldiers’ brothels we are allowed to visit, where we must wait in long lines. I wish I never thought about them. But desire makes me think about them anyway, and I am afraid I might never be free of them again.

But then I feel the lips of the little brunette and press myself against them, my eyes close and I let it all fall from me, war and terror and grossness, in order to awaken young and happy; I think of the picture of the girl on the poster and, for a moment, believe that my life depends on winning her. And if I press ever deeper into the arms that embrace me, perhaps a miracle may happen....

But then I feel the little brunette’s lips and press myself against them. I close my eyes and let it all fall away, the war, the terror, and the ugliness, so I can wake up young and happy. I think of the girl in the picture on the poster. For a moment, I believe my life depends on winning her. And if I press ever deeper into the arms holding me, perhaps a miracle may happen....

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

So, after a time we find ourselves reassembled again. Leer is in high spirits. We pull on our boots and take our leave warmly. The night air cools our hot bodies. The rustling poplars loom large in the darkness. The moon floats in the heavens and in the waters of the canal. We do not run, we walk beside one another with long strides.

After a while, we find ourselves together again. Leer is in high spirits. We pull on our boots and say warm goodbyes. The night air cools our hot bodies. The rustling poplars loom in the darkness. The moon floats in the sky and in the canal water. We do not run. We walk side by side with long strides.

"That was worth a ration-loaf," says Leer.

"That was worth a loaf of ration bread," says Leer.

I cannot trust myself to speak, I am not in the least happy.

I can't trust myself to speak. I'm not happy at all.

Then we hear footsteps and dodge behind a shrub.

Then we hear footsteps and quickly hide behind a bush.

The steps come nearer, close by us. We see a naked soldier, in boots, just like ourselves; he has a package under his arm, and gallops onward. It is Tjaden in full course. He has disappeared already.

The footsteps come closer, passing right by us. We see a naked soldier wearing boots, just like us. He has a package under his arm and is racing past. It is Tjaden, running at full speed. He has already disappeared.

We laugh. In the morning he will curse us.

We laugh. In the morning, he will curse us.

Unobserved, we arrive again at our sacks of straw.

Without being noticed, we return to our sacks of straw.

* *

* *

I am called to the Orderly Room. The Company Commander gives me a leave-pass and a travel-pass and wishes me a good journey. I look to see how much leave I have got. Seventeen days—fourteen days leave and three days for travelling. It is not enough and I ask whether I cannot have five days for travelling. Bertinck points to my pass. There I see that I am not to return to the front immediately. After my leave I have to report for a course of training to a camp on the moors.

I am called to the Orderly Room. The Company Commander gives me a leave pass and a travel pass and wishes me a good journey. I look to see how much leave I have. Seventeen days: fourteen days of leave and three days for travel. That is not enough, and I ask if I can't have five days for travel. Bertinck points to my pass. There I see that I am not to go back to the front right away. After my leave I have to report to a camp on the moors for a training course.

The others congratulate me. Kat gives me good advice, and tells me I ought to try to get a base-job. "If you are smart, you'll hang on to it."

The others congratulate me. Kat gives me good advice and says I should try to get a job at the base. "If you're smart, you'll hold on to it."

I would rather not have gone for another eight days; we are to stay here that much longer and it is good here.

I would have rather waited another eight days before going. We are staying here that much longer, and it is good here.

Naturally I have to stand the others drinks at the canteen. We are all a little bit drunk. I become gloomy: I will be away for six weeks— That is lucky of course, but what may happen before I get back? Shall I meet all these fellows again? Already Haie has gone—who will the next be?

Of course, I have to buy the others drinks at the canteen. We are all a little drunk. I grow gloomy. I will be away for six weeks. Of course, I’m lucky to be going, but what may happen before I get back? Will I see all these fellows again? Haie is already gone. Who will be next?

As we drink, I look at each of them in turn. Albert sits beside me and smokes, he is silent, we have always been together;—opposite squats Kat, with his drooping shoulders, his broad thumb, and calm voice—Müller with the protruding teeth and the booming laugh; Tjaden with his mousey eyes;—Leer who has grown a full beard and looks at least forty.

As we drink, I look at each of them in turn. Albert sits beside me, smoking in silence. We have always been together. Across from me, Kat squats with his drooping shoulders, broad thumb, and calm voice. There is Müller with his protruding teeth and booming laugh, and Tjaden with his mousey eyes. Leer has grown a full beard and looks at least forty.

Over us hangs a dense cloud of smoke. Where would a soldier be without tobacco. The canteen is his refuge, and beer is far more than a drink, it is a token that a man can move his limbs and stretch in safety. We do it ceremonially, we stretch our legs out in front of us and spit deliberately, that is the only way. How it all rises up before a man when he is going away the next morning!

A thick cloud of smoke hangs over us. Where would a soldier be without tobacco? The canteen is his refuge. Beer is much more than a drink. It is a sign that a man can move his arms and legs and stretch out in safety. We make a ceremony of it. We stretch our legs out in front of us and spit deliberately. That is the only way to do it. How vividly it all comes back to a man when he is leaving the next morning!

At night we go again to the other side of the canal. I am almost afraid to tell the little brunette that I am going away, and when I return we will certainly be far away from here; we will never see one another again. But she merely nods and takes no special notice. At first I am at a loss to understand, then it suddenly dawns on me. Yes, Leer is right: if I were going up to the front, then she would have again called me "pauvre garçon"; but merely going on leave—she does not want to hear about that, that is not nearly so interesting. May she go to the devil with her chattering talk. A man dreams of a miracle and wakes up to loaves of bread.

At night we go back to the other side of the canal. I am almost afraid to tell the young brunette that I am leaving. When I return, we will certainly be far away from here. We will never see each other again. But she just nods and pays no special attention. At first I do not understand. Then it suddenly comes to me. Yes, Leer is right. If I were going to the front, she would have called me "pauvre garçon" again. But she does not want to hear about me going on leave. That is not nearly as interesting. To hell with her and her chatter. A man dreams of a miracle and wakes up to loaves of bread.

Next morning, after I have been de-loused, I go to the rail head. Albert and Kat come with me. At the halt we learn that it will be a couple of hours yet before the train leaves. The other two have to go back to duty. We take leave of one another.

The next morning, after I have been treated for lice, I go to the railhead. Albert and Kat come with me. At the station, we learn that the train will not leave for another couple of hours. Albert and Kat have to return to duty. We say goodbye to each other.

"Good luck, Kat; good luck, Albert."

"Good luck, Kat. Good luck, Albert."

They go off and wave once or twice. Their figures dwindle. I know their every step and movement; I would recognize them at any distance. Then they disappear. I sit down on my pack and wait.

They leave, waving once or twice. They grow smaller in the distance. I know every step and movement they make. I would recognize them from any distance. Then they disappear. I sit down on my pack and wait.

Suddenly I become filled with a consuming impatience to be gone.

Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming urge to leave.

* *

* *

I lie down on many a station platform; I stand before many a soup-kitchen; I squat on many a bench;—then at last the landscape becomes gloomy, mysterious, and familiar. It glides past the western windows with its villages, their thatched roofs like caps, pulled over the white-washed, half-timbered houses, its corn-fields, gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the slanting light, its orchards, its barns and old lime trees.

I lie down on many station platforms. I stand in front of many soup kitchens. I sit on many benches. At last, the landscape grows gloomy, mysterious, and familiar. It glides past the western windows, with its villages and thatched roofs. The roofs sit like caps on the whitewashed, half-timbered houses. The fields of grain gleam like mother-of-pearl in the slanting light. There are orchards, barns, and old lime trees.

The names of the stations begin to take on meaning and my heart trembles. The train stamps and stamps onward, I stand at the window and hold on to the frame. These names mark the boundaries of my youth.

The station names begin to mean something to me, and my heart trembles. The train keeps pounding onward. I stand at the window, holding on to the frame. These names mark the boundaries of my youth.

Smooth meadows, fields, farm-yards; a solitary team moves against the sky-line along the road that runs parallel to the horizon—a barrier, before which peasants stand waiting, girls waving, children playing on the embankment, roads, leading into the country, smooth roads without artillery.

Smooth meadows, fields, and farmyards. A lone team moves along a road against the skyline, parallel to the horizon. At a barrier, peasants stand waiting, girls wave, and children play on the embankment. Roads lead into the country, smooth roads without artillery.

It is evening, and if the train did not rattle I should cry out. The plain unfolds itself.

It is evening. If the train weren't rattling, I would cry out. The plain stretches out before us.

In the distance, the soft, blue silhouette of the mountain ranges begins to appear. I recognize the characteristic outline of the Dolbenberg, a jagged comb, springing up precipitously from the limit of the forests. Behind it should lie the town.

In the distance, the soft blue outlines of the mountain ranges begin to appear. I recognize the distinctive outline of the Dolbenberg. Like a jagged comb, it rises steeply from the edge of the forests. The town should lie behind it.

But now the sun streams through the world, dissolving everything in its golden-red light, the train swings round one curve and then another;—far away, in a long line one behind the other, stand the poplars, unsubstantial, swaying and dark, fashioned out of shadow, light, and desire.

But now the sun streams across the world, dissolving everything in its golden-red light. The train swings around one curve, then another. Far away, poplars stand one behind another in a long line. They are hazy, swaying and dark, formed from shadow, light and desire.

The field swings round as the train encircles it, and the intervals between the trees diminish; the trees become a block and for a moment I see one only—then they reappear from behind the foremost tree and stand out a long line against the sky until they are hidden by the first houses.

The field seems to turn as the train circles it, and the spaces between the trees grow smaller. The trees merge into a single mass, and for a moment I see only one tree. Then the others reappear from behind the nearest tree. They stretch in a long line against the sky until the first houses hide them.

A street-crossing. I stand at the window, I cannot drag myself away. The others put their baggage ready for getting out. I repeat to myself the name of the Street that we cross over—Bremerstrasse—Bremerstrasse—

A street crossing. I stand at the window, unable to pull myself away. The others get their luggage ready to leave. I repeat the name of the street we are crossing to myself. Bremerstrasse. Bremerstrasse.

Below there are cyclists, lorries, men; it is a grey street and a grey subway;—it embraces me as though it were my mother.

Below there are cyclists, trucks, and men. It is a gray street with a gray underpass. It embraces me as though it were my mother.

Then the train stops, and there is the station with noise and cries and sentries. I pick up my pack and fasten the straps, I take my rifle in my hand and stumble down the steps.

Then the train stops at the station, where there is noise, shouting, and guards. I pick up my pack and fasten the straps. I take my rifle in my hand and stumble down the steps.

On the platform I look round; I know no one among all the people hurrying to and fro. A red-cross sister offers me something to drink. I turn away, she smiles at me too foolishly, so obsessed with her own importance: "Just look, I am giving a soldier coffee!"—She calls me "Comrade," but I will have none of it.

On the platform, I look around. I don’t know anyone among all the people hurrying back and forth. A Red Cross nurse offers me something to drink. I turn away because her smile is so foolish and self-important. It seems to say, "Just look, I am giving a soldier coffee!" She calls me "Comrade," but I want none of it.

Outside in front of the station the stream roars alongside the street, it rushes foaming from the sluices of the mill bridge. There stands the old, square watch-tower, in front of it the great mottled lime tree and behind it the evening.

Outside the station, the stream roars along the street. It rushes, foaming, from the sluices of the mill bridge. The old square watchtower stands there, with the great mottled lime tree in front of it and the evening behind it.

Here we have often sat—how long ago it is—; we have passed over this bridge and breathed the cool, acid smell of the stagnant water; we have leaned over the still water on this side of the lock, where the green creepers and weeds hang from the piles of the bridge;—and on hot days we rejoiced in the spouting foam on the other side of the lock and told tales about our school-teachers.

We often sat here. How long ago that was. We crossed this bridge and breathed in the cool, sour smell of the stagnant water. We leaned over the still water on this side of the lock. Green vines and weeds hung from the bridge supports there. On hot days, we delighted in the foaming water on the other side of the lock and told stories about our teachers.

I pass over the bridge, I look right and left; the water is as full of weeds as ever, and it still shoots over in gleaming arches; in the tower-building laundresses still stand with bare arms as they used to over the clean linen, and the heat from the ironing pours out through the open windows. Dogs trot along the narrow street, before the doors of the houses people stand and follow me with their gaze as I pass by, dirty and heavy laden.

I cross the bridge and look to either side. The water is as full of weeds as ever, and it still shoots over in gleaming arches. In the tower building, laundresses still stand over the clean linen with bare arms, just as they used to. Heat from their ironing pours through the open windows. Dogs trot along the narrow street. People stand outside their houses and watch me pass, dirty and heavily laden.

In this confectioner's we used to eat ices, and there we learned to smoke cigarettes. Walking down the street I know every shop, the colonial warehouse, the chemist's, the tobacconist's. Then at last I stand before the brown door with its worn latch and my hand grows heavy. I open the door and a wonderful freshness comes out to meet me, my eyes are dim.

We used to eat ice cream at this sweet shop, and it was there that we learned to smoke cigarettes. As I walk down the street, I recognize every shop: the grocery, the pharmacy, the tobacco shop. At last, I stand before the brown door with its worn latch, and my hand grows heavy. I open the door, and a wonderful freshness greets me. My eyes grow dim.

The stairs creak under my boots. Upstairs a door rattles, someone is looking over the railing. It is the kitchen door that was opened, they are cooking potato-cakes, the house reeks of it, and to-day of course is Saturday; that will be my sister leaning over. For a moment I am shy and lower my head, then I take off my helmet and look up. Yes, it is my eldest sister.

The stairs creak under my boots. Upstairs, a door rattles, and someone looks over the railing. The kitchen door has opened. They are cooking potato pancakes, and the whole house reeks of them. Of course, it is Saturday. So that must be my sister leaning over the railing. For a moment, I feel shy and lower my head. Then I take off my helmet and look up. Yes, it is my oldest sister.

"Paul," she cries, "Paul——"

"Paul," she cries, "Paul..."

I nod, my pack bumps against the banisters; my rifle is so heavy.

I nod. My pack bumps against the railing. My rifle is so heavy.

She pulls a door open and calls: "Mother, mother, Paul is here."

She opens a door and calls: "Mother, mother, Paul is here."

I can go no further—mother, mother, Paul is here.

I can't go any further. Mother, mother, Paul is here.

I lean against the wall and grip my helmet and rifle. I hold them as tight as I can, but I cannot take another step, the staircase fades before my eyes, I support myself with the butt of my rifle against my feet and clench my teeth fiercely, but I cannot speak a word, my sister's call has made me powerless, I can do nothing, I struggle to make myself laugh, to speak, but no word comes, and so I stand on the steps, miserable, helpless, paralysed, and against my will the tears run down my cheeks.

I lean against the wall and grip my helmet and rifle as tightly as I can. But I can't take another step. The staircase fades before my eyes. I brace myself with the butt of my rifle against my feet and clench my teeth. But I can't say a word. My sister's call has left me powerless. I can't do anything. I struggle to laugh, to speak, but no words come. So I stand on the steps, miserable, helpless, paralyzed. Against my will, tears run down my cheeks.

My sister comes back and says: "Why, what is the matter?"

My sister comes back and says, "What's the matter?"

Then I pull myself together and stagger on to the landing. I lean my rifle in a corner, I set my pack against the wall, place my helmet on it, and fling down my equipment and baggage. Then I say fiercely: "Bring me a handkerchief."

Then I pull myself together and stagger onto the landing. I lean my rifle in a corner and set my pack against the wall. I put my helmet on the pack and throw down my gear and baggage. Then I say fiercely: "Bring me a handkerchief."

She gives me one from the cupboard and I dry my face. Above me on the wall hangs the glass case with the coloured butterflies that once I collected.

She gives me one from the cupboard, and I dry my face. Above me on the wall hangs a glass case containing the colored butterflies I once collected.

Now I hear my mother's voice. It comes from the bedroom.

Now I hear my mother's voice coming from the bedroom.

"Is she in bed?" I ask my sister.

"Is she in bed?" I ask my sister.

"She is ill—" she replies.

"She's sick," she says.

I go in to her, give her my hand and say as calmly as I can: "Here I am, mother."

I go in to her and take her hand. As calmly as I can, I say, "Here I am, mother."

She lies still in the dim light. Then she asks anxiously:

She lies still in the dim light. Then she asks anxiously:

"Are you wounded?" and I feel her searching glance.

"Are you hurt?" I feel her looking at me closely.

"No, I have got leave."

"No, I'm on leave."

My mother is very pale. I am afraid to make a light.

My mother is very pale. I am afraid to turn on a light.

"Here I lie now," says she, "and cry instead of being glad."

"Here I am, lying down and crying instead of being happy," she says.

"Are you sick, mother?" I ask.

"Are you sick, Mom?" I ask.

"I am going to get up a little to-day," she says and turns to my sister, who is continually running to the kitchen to watch that the food does not burn: "And put out the jar of preserved whortleberries—you like that, don't you?" she asks me.

"I'm going to get up for a little while today," she says. She turns to my sister, who keeps running to the kitchen to make sure the food doesn't burn. "And put out the jar of preserved whortleberries. You like them, don't you?" she asks me.

"Yes, mother, I haven't had any for a long time."

"Yes, Mom, I haven't had any in a long time."

"We might almost have known you were coming," laughs my sister, "there is just your favourite dish, potato-cakes, and even whortleberries to go with them too."

“We might almost have known you were coming,” my sister laughs. “We have your favorite dish, potato cakes, and even whortleberries to go with them.”

"And it is Saturday," I add.

"And it's Saturday," I add.

"Sit here beside me," says my mother.

"Sit here next to me," says my mother.

She looks at me. Her hands are white and sickly and frail compared with mine. We say very little, and I am thankful that she asks nothing. What ought I to say? Everything I could have wished for has happened. I have come out of it safely and sit here beside her. And in the kitchen stands my sister making the evening bread and singing.

She looks at me. Her hands are pale, sickly, and frail compared with mine. We say very little, and I am grateful that she asks nothing. What should I say? Everything I could have wished for has happened. I have come through it safely and am sitting here beside her. And in the kitchen, my sister is making bread for supper and singing.

"Dear boy," says my mother softly.

"Dear boy," my mother says softly.

We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest what they already know. When my mother says to me "dear boy," it means much more than when another uses it. I know well enough that the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months, and that she has kept it for me; and the somewhat stale cakes that she gives me too. She has taken a favourable opportunity of getting a few and has put them all by for me.

Our family never showed our feelings much. Poor people who work hard and have many worries rarely do. They do not see the need to say what they already know. When my mother calls me "dear boy," it means much more than when someone else says it. I know the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months. She has saved it for me. She has saved the slightly stale cakes she gives me, too. She found a chance to get a few and put them all aside for me.

I sit by her bed, and through the window the chestnut trees in the beer garden opposite glow in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and say over to myself:—"You are at home, you are at home." But a sense of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano—but I am not myself there. There is a distance, a veil between us.

I sit by her bed. Through the window, the chestnut trees in the beer garden across the street glow brown and gold. I take a deep breath and say to myself: "You are at home, you are at home." But I can't shake the feeling that everything is strange. I can't find any part of myself in any of it. My mother is here, and so is my sister. My butterfly case and the mahogany piano are here too, but I am not myself here. There is a distance, a veil between us.

I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have brought—a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice.

I fetch my pack and bring it to the bedside. I empty out what I brought: a whole Edamer cheese that Kat gave me, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver sausage, a pound of cooking fat, and a small bag of rice.

"I suppose you can make some use of that——"

"I suppose you can use some of that..."

They nod.

They nod.

"Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire.

"Is the food situation pretty bad here?" I ask.

"Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?"

"Yes, there isn't much. Do you get enough out there?"

I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well."

I smile and point to the things I brought. "Of course, we don't always have quite this much, but we get by reasonably well."

Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"

Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly, my mother grabs my hand and asks hesitantly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"

Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.—You, Mother,—I shake my head and say: "No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad."

Mother, how should I answer that? You wouldn't understand, and you would never realize it. And you never should realize it. You ask if it was bad. Mother, I shake my head and say: "No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together, so it isn't so bad."

"Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it."

"Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here recently. He said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and everything else."

It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were, the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead.

My mother says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying. She is just worried about me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches where all the soldiers were stiff, as if they had suffered a stroke? The men stood and lay where they had been, against the parapet and in the dugouts. Their faces were blue. They were dead.

"No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit——"

"No, mother, that's just talk," I answer. "There's not much truth in what Bredemeyer says. For example, I'm healthy and fit..."

Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone.

Seeing my mother's trembling anxiety, I regain my composure. Now I can walk around, talk, and answer questions without fear. I no longer fear suddenly having to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins turn to brimstone.

My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the kitchen. "What is the matter with her?" I ask.

My mother wants to get up. So I go into the kitchen to be with my sister for a while. "What's wrong with her?" I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders: "She has been in bed two months now, but we did not want to write and tell you. Several doctors have been to see her. One of them said it is probably cancer again."

She shrugs: "She’s been in bed for two months now, but we didn’t want to write and tell you. Several doctors have examined her. One of them said it’s probably cancer again."

* *

* *

I go to the district commandant to report myself. Slowly I wander through the streets. Occasionally someone speaks to me. I do not delay long for I have little inclination to talk.

I go to the district commandant to report in. I wander slowly through the streets. Now and then, someone speaks to me. I do not linger because I do not feel much like talking.

On my way back from the barracks a loud voice calls out to me. Still lost in thought I turn round and find myself confronted by a Major. "Can't you salute?" he blusters.

On my way back from the barracks, a loud voice calls out to me. Still lost in thought, I turn around and find myself facing a major. "Can't you salute?" he demands angrily.

"Sorry, Major," I say in embarrassment, "I didn't notice you."

"Sorry, Major," I say, embarrassed. "I didn't notice you."

"Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars.

"Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars.

I would like to hit him in the face, but control myself, for my leave depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I did not see you, Herr Major."

I want to hit him in the face, but I hold back because my leave depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I didn't see you, Herr Major."

"Then keep your eyes open," he snorts.

"Then keep your eyes open," he snorts.

"What is your name?" I give it.

"What is your name?" I tell them my name.

His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?"

His fat, red face is furious. "What regiment?"

I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough. "Where are they?"

I give him all the details. He still hasn't had enough. "Where are they?"

But I have had more than enough and say: "Between Langemark and Bixschoote."

But I've had more than enough, so I say: "Between Langemark and Bixschoote."

"Eh?" he asks, a bit stupefied.

"Huh?" he asks, a little confused.

I explain to him that I arrived on leave only an hour or two since, thinking that he would then trot along. But not at all. He gets even more furious: "You think you can bring your front-line manners here, what? Well, we don't stand that sort of thing. Thank God, we have discipline here!"

I explain that I arrived on leave only an hour or two ago, hoping he will go away. But he doesn't. He gets even angrier: "You think you can bring your front-line manners here, do you? Well, we don't put up with that sort of thing. Thank God, we have discipline here!"

"Twenty paces backwards, double march!" he commands.

"Twenty paces backward, at a run!" he commands.

I am mad with rage. But I cannot say anything to him; he could put me under arrest if he liked. So I double back, and then march up to him. Six paces from him I spring to a stiff salute and maintain it until I am six paces beyond him.

I am mad with rage. But I cannot say anything to him. He could put me under arrest if he liked. So I run back at the double, and then march up to him. Six paces from him, I snap into a stiff salute and hold it until I am six paces past him.

He calls me back again and affably gives me to understand that for once he is pleased to put mercy before justice. I pretend to be duly grateful. "Now, dismiss!" he says. I turn about smartly and march off.

He calls me back and tells me kindly that, for once, he has decided to show mercy instead of punishing me. I pretend to be properly grateful. "Now, dismissed!" he says. I turn sharply and march off.

That ruins the evening for me. I go back home and throw my uniform into a corner; I ought to have done that before. Then I take out my civilian clothes from the wardrobe and put them on.

That ruins the evening for me. I go home and throw my uniform into a corner. I should have done that earlier. Then I take my civilian clothes out of the closet and put them on.

I feel awkward. The suit is rather tight and short, I have grown in the army. Collar and tie give me some trouble. In the end my sister ties the bow for me. But how light the suit is, it feels as though I had nothing on but a shirt and underpants.

I feel awkward. The suit is a little tight and short. I have grown since joining the army. The collar and tie give me some trouble. In the end, my sister ties the bow for me. But the suit is so light. It feels as though I’m wearing nothing but a shirt and underpants.

I look at myself in the glass. It is a strange sight. A sunburnt, overgrown candidate for confirmation gazes at me in astonishment.

I look at myself in the mirror. It is a strange sight. A sunburned, overgrown boy preparing for confirmation stares back at me in astonishment.

My mother is pleased to see me wearing civilian clothes; it makes me less strange to her. But my father would rather I kept my uniform on so that he could take me to visit his acquaintances.

My mother is happy to see me in civilian clothes. They make me seem less unfamiliar to her. But my father would rather I wore my uniform so he could take me to visit people he knows.

But I refuse.

But I refuse.

* *

* *

It is pleasant to sit quietly somewhere, in the beer-garden for example, under the chestnuts by the skittle-alley. The leaves fall down on the table and on the ground, only a few, the first. A glass of beer stands in front of me, I've learned to drink in the army. The glass is half empty, but there are still a few good swigs ahead of me, and besides I can always order a second and a third if I wish to. There are no bugles and no bombardments, the children of the house play in the skittle-alley, and the dog rests his head against my knee. The sky is blue, between the leaves of the chestnuts rises the green spire of St. Margaret's Church.

It is pleasant to sit quietly somewhere, for example, in the beer garden under the chestnut trees by the skittle alley. A few leaves fall on the table and the ground. They are the first to fall. A glass of beer stands in front of me. I learned to drink in the army. The glass is half empty, but there are still a few good swigs left. Besides, I can always order a second and a third if I want to. There are no bugles and no bombardments. The children of the house play in the skittle alley, and the dog rests his head against my knee. The sky is blue. Through the chestnut leaves, the green spire of St. Margaret's Church rises into view.

This is good, I like it. But I cannot get on with the people. My mother is the only one who asks no questions. Not so my father. He wants me to tell him about the front; he is curious in a way that I find stupid and distressing; I no longer have any real contact with him. There is nothing he likes more than just hearing about it. I realize he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I would do it willingly, but it is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them. What would become of us if everything that happens out there were quite clear to us?

This is good. I like it. But I cannot get along with the people here. My mother is the only one who asks no questions. My father is different. He wants me to tell him about the front. His curiosity strikes me as stupid and upsetting. I no longer feel any real connection to him. Nothing pleases him more than hearing about the front. I realize he does not know that a man cannot talk about such things. I would gladly tell him, but putting these things into words is too dangerous for me. I am afraid they might grow enormous, and I would no longer be able to control them. What would become of us if we fully understood everything that happens out there?

So I confine myself to telling him a few amusing things. But he wants to know whether I have ever had a hand-to-hand fight. I say "No," and get up and go out.

So I just tell him a few funny things. But he wants to know if I have ever fought someone hand-to-hand. I say "No," then get up and leave.

But that does not mend matters. After I have been startled a couple of times in the street by the screaming of the tramcars, which resembles the shriek of a shell coming straight for one, somebody taps me on the shoulder. It is my German-master, and he fastens on me with the usual question: "Well, how are things out there? Terrible, terrible, eh? Yes, it is dreadful, but we must carry on. And after all, you do at least get decent food out there, so I hear. You look well, Paul, and fit. Naturally it's worse here. Naturally. The best for our soldiers every time, that goes without saying."

But that does not make things better. The screaming of the streetcars startles me a couple of times. It sounds like a shell shrieking straight toward me. Then someone taps me on the shoulder. It is my German teacher, and he grabs my attention with the usual question: "Well, how are things out there? Terrible, terrible, eh? Yes, it's dreadful, but we must carry on. And after all, I hear you do at least get decent food out there. You look well, Paul, and fit. Of course it's worse here. Of course. The best for our soldiers every time, that goes without saying."

He drags me along to a table with a lot of others. They welcome me, a head-master shakes hands with me and says: "So you come from the front? What is the spirit like out there? Excellent, eh? excellent?"

He drags me over to a table where a lot of other people are sitting. They welcome me. A school principal shakes my hand and says, "So you come from the front? What is morale like out there? Excellent, eh? Excellent?"

I explain that no one would be sorry to be back home.

I explain that no one would mind being back home.

He laughs uproariously. "I can well believe it! But first you have to give the Froggies a good hiding. Do you smoke? Here, try one. Waiter, bring a beer as well for our young warrior."

He laughs loudly. "I can believe it! But first you have to give the Froggies a good beating. Do you smoke? Here, try one. Waiter, bring our young warrior a beer too."

Unfortunately I have accepted the cigar, so I have to remain. And they are all so dripping with good will that it is impossible to object. All the same I feel annoyed and smoke like a chimney as hard as I can. In order to make at least some show of appreciation I toss off the beer in one gulp. Immediately a second is ordered; people know how much they are indebted to the soldiers. They argue about what we ought to annex. The head-master with the steel watch-chain wants to have at least the whole of Belgium, the coal-areas of France, and a slice of Russia. He produces reasons why we must have them and is quite inflexible until at last the others give in to him. Then he begins to expound just whereabouts in France the break-through must come, and turns to me: "Now, shove ahead a bit out there with your everlasting trench warfare—Smash through the johnnies and then there will be peace."

Unfortunately, I have accepted the cigar, so I have to stay. And everyone is so full of goodwill that I can hardly object. Even so, I feel annoyed and smoke like a chimney, as hard as I can. To show at least some appreciation, I gulp down the beer. They immediately order me another. People know how much they owe the soldiers. They argue about what territory we should take. The headmaster with the steel watch chain wants at least all of Belgium, France’s coal regions, and a slice of Russia. He gives his reasons for taking them and refuses to budge until the others finally give in. Then he starts explaining exactly where the breakthrough in France must happen. He turns to me: "Now, push forward a bit out there with your endless trench warfare. Smash through the enemy and then there will be peace."

I reply that in our opinion a break-through may not be possible. The enemy may have too many reserves. Besides, the war may be rather different from what people think.

I reply that in our view a breakthrough may not be possible. The enemy may have too many reserves. Besides, the war may be rather different from what people think.

He dismisses the idea loftily and informs me I know nothing about it. "The details, yes," says he, "but this relates to the whole. And of that you are not able to judge. You see only your little sector and so cannot have any general survey. You do your duty, you risk your lives, that deserves the highest honour—every man of you ought to have the Iron Cross—but first of all the enemy line must be broken through in Flanders and then rolled up from the top."

He dismisses the idea with an air of superiority and tells me I know nothing about it. “You know the details, yes,” he says, “but this concerns the whole picture. And you can't judge that. You see only your little sector, so you can't see the whole picture. You do your duty and risk your lives. That deserves the highest honor. Every man of you ought to have the Iron Cross. But first, we must break through the enemy line in Flanders and then roll it up from the top.”

He blows his nose and wipes his beard. "Completely rolled up they must be, from the top to the bottom. And then to Paris."

He blows his nose and wipes his beard. "They must be completely rolled up, from top to bottom. And then on to Paris."

I would like to know just how he pictures it to himself, and pour the third glass of beer into me. Immediately he orders another.

I wonder exactly how he imagines it, and I down my third glass of beer. He immediately orders another.

But I break away. He stuffs a few more cigars into my pocket and sends me off with a friendly slap. "All of the best! I hope we will soon hear something worth while from you."

But I pull away. He stuffs a few more cigars into my pocket and sends me off with a friendly slap. "All the best! I hope we hear something worthwhile from you soon."

* *

* *

I imagined leave would be different from this. Indeed, it was different a year ago. It is I of course that have changed in the interval. There lies a gulf between that time and to-day. At that time I still knew nothing about the war, we had been only in quiet sectors. But now I see that I have been crushed without knowing it. I find I do not belong here any more, it is a foreign world. Some of these people ask questions, some ask no questions, but one can see that they are quite confident they know all about it; they often say so with their air of comprehension, so there is no point in discussing it. They make up a picture of it for themselves.

I imagined leave would be different from this. It was different a year ago. Of course, I am the one who has changed since then. A gulf separates that time from today. Back then, I still knew nothing about the war. We had only been in quiet sectors. But now I see that I have been crushed without knowing it. I find that I no longer belong here. This is a foreign world. Some of these people ask questions, and some do not. But I can see that they are certain they know all about the war. They often say so, acting as if they understand. So there is no point in discussing it. They make up their own picture of the war.

I prefer to be alone, so that no one troubles me. For they all come back to the same thing, how badly it goes and how well it goes; one thinks it is this way, another that; and yet they are always absorbed in the things that go to make up their own existence. Formerly I lived in just the same way myself, but now I feel no contact here any longer.

I prefer to be alone, so no one bothers me. They all come back to the same thing: how badly things are going and how well they are going. One person sees things one way, another sees them differently. Yet they are always absorbed in the things that make up their own lives. I used to live the same way myself, but now I no longer feel connected here.

They talk to me too much. They have worries, aims, desires, that I cannot comprehend. I often sit with one of them in the little beer-garden and try to explain to him that this is really the only thing: just to sit quietly, like this. They understand of course, they agree, they may even feel it so too, but only with words, only with words, yes, that is it—they feel it, but always with only half of themselves, the rest of their being is taken up with other things, they are so divided in themselves that none feels it with his whole essence; I cannot even say myself exactly what I mean.

They talk to me too much. They have worries, goals, and desires that I cannot understand. I often sit with one of them in the little beer garden. I try to explain that this is really the only thing that matters: just sitting quietly, like this. Of course they understand and agree. They may even feel the same way, but only in words, only in words. Yes, that is it. They feel it, but only with half of themselves. The rest of them is occupied with other things. They are so divided within themselves that none of them feels it with his whole being. I cannot even say exactly what I mean.

When I see them here, in their rooms, in their offices, about their occupations, I feel an irresistible attraction in it, I would like to be here too and forget the war; but also it repels me, it is so narrow, how can that fill a man's life, he ought to smash it to bits; how can they do it, while out at the front the splinters are whining over the shell-holes and the star-shells go up, the wounded are carried back on water-proof sheets and comrades crouch in the trenches.—They are different men here, men I cannot properly understand, whom I envy and despise. I must think of Kat and Albert and Müller and Tjaden, what will they be doing? No doubt they are sitting in the canteen, or perhaps swimming—soon they will have to go up to the front-line again.

When I see them here, in their rooms and offices, going about their work, I feel irresistibly drawn to their lives. I would like to be here too and forget the war. But their lives also repel me. They are so narrow. How can that fill a man's life? He should smash it to bits. How can they live like this while, at the front, shell fragments whine over the shell holes and star shells go up? The wounded are carried back on waterproof sheets, and comrades crouch in the trenches. The men here are different. I cannot really understand them, and I envy and despise them. I think of Kat and Albert and Müller and Tjaden. What are they doing? No doubt they are sitting in the canteen, or perhaps swimming. Soon they will have to go back up to the front line.

* *

* *

In my room behind the table stands a brown leather sofa. I sit down on it.

In my room, a brown leather sofa sits behind the table. I sit down on the sofa.

On the walls are pasted countless pictures that I once used to cut out of the newspapers. In between are drawings and postcards that have come my way. In the corner is a small iron stove. Against the wall opposite stand the book-shelves with my books.

Countless pictures I used to cut out of newspapers are pasted on the walls. Among them are drawings and postcards I have collected. A small iron stove sits in the corner. Against the opposite wall are the bookshelves with my books.

I used to live in this room before I was a soldier. The books I bought gradually with the money I earned by coaching. Many of them are second-hand, all the classics for example, one volume in blue cloth boards cost one mark twenty pfennig. I bought them complete because I was thoroughgoing, I did not trust the editors of selections, even though they may have chosen all the best. So I purchased only "collected works." I read most of them with laudable zeal, but few of them really appealed to me. I preferred the other books, the moderns, which were of course much dearer. A few I came by not quite honestly, I borrowed and did not return them because I did not want to part with them.

I lived in this room before I became a soldier. I gradually bought the books with money I earned tutoring. Many are secondhand, including all the classics. A volume bound in blue cloth cost one mark and twenty pfennigs. I bought the complete works because I liked to be thorough. I did not trust editors’ selections, even though they may have chosen all the best works. So I bought only "collected works." I read most of them with admirable enthusiasm, but few really appealed to me. I preferred the other books, the modern ones, which were of course much more expensive. I got a few of them in a less than honest way. I borrowed them and never returned them because I did not want to give them up.

One shelf is filled with school books. They are not so well cared for, they are badly thumbed, and pages have been torn out for certain purposes. Then below are periodicals, papers, and letters all jammed in together with drawings and rough sketches.

One shelf is filled with schoolbooks. They are less well cared for and heavily worn from use. Pages have been torn out for certain purposes. Below them, magazines, newspapers, and letters are all crammed together with drawings and rough sketches.

I want to think myself back into that time. It is still in the room, I feel it at once, the walls have preserved it. My hands rest on the arms of the sofa; now I make myself at home and draw up my legs so that I sit comfortably in the corner, in the arms of the sofa. The little window is open, through it I see the familiar picture of the street with the rising spire of the church at the end. There are a couple of flowers on the table. Pen-holders, a shell as a paper-weight, the ink-well—here nothing is changed.

I want to imagine myself back in that time. I feel at once that it is still in the room. The walls have preserved it. My hands rest on the arms of the sofa. I settle in and pull up my legs, sitting comfortably in the corner between the sofa’s arms. The small window is open. Through it, I see the familiar street, with the church spire rising at the end. A couple of flowers are on the table. The pen holders, a shell used as a paperweight, the inkwell. Nothing here has changed.

It will be like this too, if I am lucky, when the war is over and I come back here for good. I will sit here just like this and look at my room and wait.

It will be like this too if I’m lucky, when the war is over and I come back here for good. I’ll sit here just like this, look at my room, and wait.

I feel excited; but I do not want to be, for that is not right. I want that quiet rapture again. I want to feel the same powerful, nameless urge that I used to feel when I turned to my books. The breath of desire that then arose from the coloured backs of the books, shall fill me again, melt the heavy, dead lump of lead that lies somewhere in me and waken again the impatience of the future, the quick joy in the world of thought, it shall bring back again the lost eagerness of my youth. I sit and wait.

I feel excited, but I don't want to be, because that is not right. I want that quiet rapture again. I want to feel the same powerful, nameless urge I used to feel when I turned to my books. I want the breath of desire that rose from their colored spines back then to fill me again. Let it melt the heavy, dead lump of lead that lies somewhere inside me. Let it reawaken my impatience for the future and my quick joy in the world of thought. Let it bring back the lost eagerness of my youth. I sit and wait.

It occurs to me that I must go and see Kemmerich's mother;—I might visit Mittelstaedt too, he should be at the barracks. I look out of the window;—beyond the sober picture of the street appears a range of hills, distant and light; it changes to a clear day in autumn, and I sit by the fire with Kat and Albert and eat potatoes baked in their skins.

I realize I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. I might visit Mittelstaedt too. He should be at the barracks. I look out the window. Beyond the plain street, a range of hills appears, distant and pale. The scene changes to a clear autumn day. I sit by the fire with Kat and Albert, eating potatoes baked in their skins.

But I do not want to think of that, I sweep it away. The room shall speak, it must catch me up and hold me, I want to feel that I belong here, I want to hearken and know when I go back to the front that the war will sink down, be drowned utterly in the great home-coming tide, know that it will then be past for ever, and not gnaw us continually, that it will have none but an outward power over us.

But I do not want to think about that, so I push it away. The room must speak to me. It must draw me in and hold me. I want to feel that I belong here. I want to listen and know, when I go back to the front, that the war will fade. I want to know it will be completely drowned in the great tide of homecoming. I want to know that the war will then be over forever and will not keep gnawing at us. I want to know that it will have power over us only from the outside.

The backs of the books stand in rows. I know them all still, I remember arranging them in order. I implore them with my eyes: Speak to me—take me up—take me, Life of my Youth—you who are care-free, beautiful—receive me again—

The book spines stand in rows. I still know them all. I remember putting them in order. I beg them with my eyes: Speak to me. Take me in. Life of my youth, carefree and beautiful, take me back.

I wait, I wait.

I wait, I wait.

Images float through my mind, but they do not grip me, they are mere shadows and memories.

Images float through my mind, but they don't grip me. They are only shadows and memories.

Nothing—nothing—

Nothing, nothing...

My disquietude grows.

I feel increasingly uneasy.

A terrible feeling of foreignness suddenly rises up in me. I cannot find my way back, I am shut out though I entreat earnestly and put forth all my strength.

A terrible feeling of being a stranger suddenly comes over me. I cannot find my way back. I am shut out, though I beg desperately and use all my strength.

Nothing stirs; listless and wretched, like a condemned man, I sit there and the past withdraws itself. And at the same time I fear to importune it too much, because I do not know what might happen then. I am a soldier, I must cling to that.

Nothing stirs. Listless and miserable, I sit there like a condemned man, and the past slips away. At the same time, I am afraid to press the past too hard, because I don't know what might happen. I am a soldier. I must hold on to that.

Wearily I stand up and look out of the window. Then I take one of the books, intending to read, and turn over the leaves. But I put it away and take out another. There are passages in it that have been marked. I look, turn over the pages, take up fresh books. Already they are piled up beside me. Speedily more join the heap, papers, magazines, letters.

Tired, I stand up and look out the window. Then I pick up a book, planning to read, and flip through its pages. But I put it away and take out another. Some passages in it are marked. I look through it, turn the pages, and pick up more books. They are already piled up beside me. Soon the pile grows with more books, papers, magazines, and letters.

I stand there dumb. As before a judge.

I stand there speechless. As if before a judge.

Dejected.

Downhearted.

Words, Words, Words—they do not reach me.

Words, words, words. They do not reach me.

Slowly I place the books back in the shelves.

Slowly, I put the books back on the shelves.

Nevermore.

Never again.

Quietly, I go out of the room.

I quietly leave the room.

* *

* *

Still I do not give up hope. I do not, indeed, go to my room any more, but comfort myself with the thought that a few days are not enough to judge by. Afterwards—later on—there is plenty of time for that.

Still, I don't give up hope. I no longer go to my room, but I comfort myself with the thought that a few days aren't enough to judge. There will be plenty of time for that later.

So I go over to see Mittelstaedt in the barracks, and we sit in his room, there is an atmosphere about it that I do not like but with which I am quite familiar.

So I go to see Mittelstaedt at the barracks, and we sit in his room. The atmosphere there is unpleasant but familiar.

Mittelstaedt has some news ready for me that electrifies me on the spot. He tells me Kantorek has been called up as a territorial.

Mittelstaedt has some news that thrills me at once. He tells me Kantorek has been called up as a reservist.

"Just think of it," says he, and takes out a couple of good cigars, "I come back here from the hospital and bump right into him. He stretches out his paw to me and bleats: 'Hullo Mittelstaedt, how are you?'—I look at him and say: 'Territorial Kantorek, business is business and schnapps is schnapps, you ought to know that well enough yourself. Stand to attention when you speak to a superior officer.' You should have seen his face! A cross between a dud and a pickled cucumber. He tried once again to chum up. So I snubbed him a bit harder. Then he brought up his biggest guns and asked confidentially: 'Would you like me to use my influence so that you can take an emergency-exam.?' He was trying to remind me of those things, you know. Then I got mad and I reminded him of something instead. 'Territorial Kantorek, two years ago you preached us into enlisting; and among us there was one, Joseph Behm, who didn't want to enlist. He was killed three months before he would have been called up in the ordinary way. If it had not been for you he would have lived just that much longer. And now: Dismiss. You will hear from me later.' It was easy to get put in charge of his company. First thing I did was to take him to the stores and fit him out with a suitable equipment. You will see in a minute."

"Just imagine," he says, taking out a couple of good cigars. "I get back from the hospital and run right into him. He holds out his paw and bleats: 'Hello Mittelstaedt, how are you?' I look at him and say: 'Territorial Kantorek, business is business and schnapps is schnapps. You should know that well enough yourself. Stand at attention when you speak to a superior officer.' You should have seen his face! A cross between a dud and a pickled cucumber. He tried again to be friendly, so I snubbed him even harder. Then he brought out his biggest guns and asked confidentially: 'Would you like me to use my influence to help you take an emergency exam?' He was trying to remind me of those things, you know. Then I got angry and reminded him of something instead. 'Territorial Kantorek, two years ago you preached us into enlisting. One of us, Joseph Behm, didn't want to enlist. He was killed three months before he would normally have been called up. If it hadn't been for you, he would have lived that much longer. And now: Dismissed. You'll hear from me later.' It was easy to get put in charge of his company. First, I took him to the supply stores and fitted him out with suitable equipment. You'll see in a minute."

We go out to the parade ground. The company has fallen in. Mittelstaedt stands them at ease and inspects.

We go out to the parade ground. The company is lined up. Mittelstaedt tells them to stand at ease and inspects them.

Then I see Kantorek and am scarcely able to stifle my laughter. He is wearing a faded blue tunic. On the back and in the sleeves there are big dark patches. The overcoat must have belonged to a giant. The black, worn breeches are just as much too short; they reach barely halfway down his calf. The boots, tough old clod-hoppers, with turned-up toes and laces at the side, are much too big for him. But as a compensation the cap is too small, a terribly dirty, mean little pill-box. The whole rig-out is just pitiful.

Then I see Kantorek and can barely hold back my laughter. He is wearing a faded blue tunic. There are big dark patches on the back and sleeves. The overcoat must have belonged to a giant. The worn black trousers are just as ill-fitting, but too short. They barely reach halfway down his calves. The boots are tough, clunky old things with upturned toes and laces at the sides. They are much too big for him. But to make up for that, the cap is too small. It is a terribly dirty, shabby little pillbox. The whole outfit is just pitiful.

Mittelstaedt stops in front of him: "Territorial Kantorek, do you call those buttons polished? You seem as though you can never learn. Inadequate, Kantorek, quite inadequate——"

Mittelstaedt stops in front of him: "Territorial Kantorek, do you call those buttons polished? It seems you can never learn. Not good enough, Kantorek, not nearly good enough..."

It makes me bubble with glee. In school Kantorek used to chasten Mittelstaedt with exactly the same expression—"Inadequate, Mittelstaedt, quite inadequate."

It makes me bubble with delight. In school, Kantorek used to scold Mittelstaedt with those exact words: "Inadequate, Mittelstaedt, quite inadequate."

Mittelstaedt continues to upbraid him: "Look at Boettcher now, there's a model for you to learn from."

Mittelstaedt continues to scold him: "Look at Boettcher. You could learn from his example."

I can hardly believe my eyes. Boettcher is there too, Boettcher, our school porter. And he is a model! Kantorek shoots a glance at me as if he would like to eat me. But I grin at him innocently, as though I do not recognize him any more.

I can hardly believe my eyes. Boettcher is there too. He’s our school porter. And he’s a model! Kantorek glares at me as if he wants to eat me. But I grin at him innocently, as though I no longer recognize him.

Nothing could look more ludicrous than his forage-cap and his uniform. And this is the object before whom we used to stand in anguish, as he sat up there enthroned at his desk, spearing at us with his pencil for our mistakes in those irregular French verbs with which afterwards we made so little headway in France. That is barely two years ago—and now here stands Territorial Kantorek, the spell quite broken, with bent knees, arms like pothooks, unpolished buttons and that ludicrous rig-out—an impossible soldier. I cannot reconcile this with the menacing figure at the schoolmaster's desk. I wonder what I, the old soldier, would do if this skin full of woe ever dared to say to me again: "Bäumer, give the imperfect of 'aller.'"

Nothing could look more ridiculous than his military cap and uniform. And this is the man who used to make us stand in anguish. He sat enthroned at his desk, stabbing his pencil at us over our mistakes in those irregular French verbs. They did us so little good later in France. That was barely two years ago. Now here stands Territorial Kantorek, the spell completely broken. His knees are bent, his arms are crooked like pot hooks, his buttons are unpolished, and his outfit is ridiculous. He is a hopeless soldier. I cannot reconcile him with the menacing figure at the schoolmaster's desk. I wonder what I, the old soldier, would do if this miserable wretch ever dared to say to me again: "Bäumer, give the imperfect of 'aller.'"

Then Mittelstaedt makes them practice skirmishing, and as a favour appoints Kantorek squad leader.

Then Mittelstaedt has them practice skirmishing and, as a favor, makes Kantorek the squad leader.

Now in skirmishing the squad leader has always to keep twenty paces in front of his squad; if the order comes "On the march, about turn," the line of skirmishers simply turns about, but the squad leader, who now finds himself suddenly twenty paces in rear of the line, has to rush up at the double and take his position again twenty paces in front of the squad. That makes altogether forty paces double-march. But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about turn," comes again and he once more has to race at top speed another forty paces to the other side. In this way the squad has made merely the turn-about and a couple of paces while the squad-leader dashes backwards and forwards like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes.

During skirmishing, the squad leader must always stay twenty paces ahead of his squad. If the order comes "On the march, about turn," the line of skirmishers simply turns around. But the squad leader suddenly finds himself twenty paces behind the line. He has to rush forward at a double march to take his place twenty paces ahead of the squad again. That means double marching forty paces in all. But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about turn," comes again. Once more, he has to race at top speed forty paces to the other side. In this way, the squad has only turned around and taken a couple of paces. Meanwhile, the squad leader dashes back and forth like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn tricks.

Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck.

Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, because he once ruined Mittelstaedt's chance of promotion. And Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the most of this opportunity before returning to the front. A man might well die more easily after the army has given him even one such stroke of luck.

In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping.

Meanwhile, Kantorek is rushing up and down like a wild boar. After a while, Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and starts the very important exercise of crawling.

On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music.

Kantorek crawls across the sand right in front of us, carrying his gun as the rules require. He looks ridiculous. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music.

Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the schoolmaster. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness."

Mittelstaedt encourages Territorial Kantorek by quoting what Kantorek said as a schoolteacher. "Territorial Kantorek, we are lucky to live in a great age. We must all be humble and put aside our bitterness for once."

Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth.

Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood stuck between his teeth.

Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!"

Mittelstaedt bends down and says reproachfully: "And don't let the little things make you lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!"

It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school.

I’m amazed that Kantorek doesn’t explode with a bang. During physical exercises, Mittelstaedt imitates him perfectly. As Kantorek moves along the horizontal bar, Mittelstaedt grabs him by the seat of his trousers. He holds him so that Kantorek can just raise his chin above the bar, then starts giving him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to Mittelstaedt at school.

The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."

The extra work duties are assigned next. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread duty! Take the handcart with you."

In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty.

A couple of minutes later, the two set off together, pushing the barrow. Kantorek walks with his head down, furious. But the porter is delighted to have gotten light duty.

The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.

The bakery is at the far end of town. The two must travel through the whole town to get there and back.

"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them."

"They've already done that a couple of times," says Mittelstaedt with a grin. "There are still a few people waiting to see them."

"Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?"

"Great," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?"

"He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."

"He did try. Our commanding officer laughed his head off when he heard the story. He has no time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm courting his daughter."

"He'll mess up the examination for you."

"He'll mess up the exam for you."

"I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty."

"I don't care," Mittelstaedt says calmly. "Besides, his complaint went nowhere because I could show he'd had hardly anything but light duty."

"Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask.

"Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask.

"He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously.

"He's too stupid. I couldn't be bothered," Mittelstaedt answers scornfully.

* *

* *

What is leave?—A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,—I know she counts the days;—every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it.

What is leave? A break that only makes everything afterward much worse. Already, I am beginning to feel the pain of leaving. My mother watches me silently. I know she counts the days. Every morning she is sad. There is one day less. She has put away my pack because she does not want it to remind her.

The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint.

The hours pass quickly if you dwell on your thoughts. I pull myself together and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. Bones are a great luxury, and people line up early in the morning and wait. Many of them faint.

We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out.

We have no luck. After we take turns waiting for three hours, the line breaks up. The bones have run out.

It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat.

It's a good thing I get rations. I bring them to my mother, so we all get something decent to eat.

The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother.

The days grow more tense, and my mother's eyes grow sadder. Only four days left now. I have to go see Kemmerich's mother.

* *

* *

I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?"—who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you——"—who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"

I cannot write that down. This trembling, sobbing woman shakes me and cries out: "Why are you alive when he is dead?" She covers me with tears and cries: "What are you here for at all, child, when you..." She drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"

I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me: "You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish—tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it."

I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantly. She looks at me, doubting me: "You’re lying. I know better. I’ve felt how terribly he died. I’ve heard his voice at night. I’ve felt his anguish. Tell me the truth. I want to know it. I have to know it."

"No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once."

"No," I say, "I was beside him. He died right away."

She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't."

She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You have to tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see? You're tormenting me far more than you would if you told me the truth. I can't bear not knowing. Tell me what happened. Even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I'll have to imagine if you don't."

I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm."

I will never tell her. She can tear me to pieces first. I comfort her, but I still think she's rather stupid. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead, he can no longer understand so much anguish over one person. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was completely calm."

She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?"

She says nothing. Then she slowly asks: "Will you swear it?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"By everything that is sacred to you?"

"On everything you hold sacred?"

Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?—such things change pretty quickly with us.

Good God, what is sacred to me? Such things change pretty quickly for us.

"Yes, he died at once."

"Yes, he died immediately."

"Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?"

"Are you willing to never come back yourself if it isn't true?"

"May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously."

"May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantly."

I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself.

I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and cries without stopping. I have to tell her how it happened, so I make up a story. I almost believe the story myself.

As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer.

As I leave, she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. He is wearing his recruit’s uniform and leaning on a round, rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him, a forest is painted on a curtain. A mug of beer sits on the table.

* *

* *

It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again?

It is my last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early. I grab the pillow, hold it close, and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever sleep in a feather bed again?

Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard.

Late at night, my mother comes into my room. She thinks I’m asleep, and I pretend to be. It’s too hard to talk and stay awake together.

She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up.

She sits up late into the night, although she is in pain and often writhes. At last, I can't bear it any longer and pretend I've just woken up.

"Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here."

"Go to sleep, Mom. You'll catch cold here."

"I can sleep enough later," she says.

"I can get enough sleep later," she says.

I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps."

I sit up. "I'm not going straight back to the front, Mother. I have to spend four weeks at the training camp. I may be able to visit one Sunday while I'm there."

She is silent. Then she asks gently: "Are you very much afraid?"

She is quiet. Then she asks gently: "Are you very afraid?"

"No, mother."

"No, Mom."

"I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good."

"I want to tell you to watch out for the women in France. They are no good."

Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child—why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers—it is such a little time ago, why is it over?

Oh, Mother, Mother! You still think I’m a child. Why can’t I put my head in your lap and cry? Why do I always have to be strong and in control of myself? I want to cry and be comforted too. I’m really little more than a child. My short trousers from when I was a boy are still hanging in the wardrobe. It was such a short time ago. Why is it over?

"Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can.

"There aren't any women where we are, Mom," I say as calmly as I can.

"And be very careful at the front, Paul."

"And be very careful at the front, Paul."

Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are!

Oh, Mother, Mother! Why don't I hold you in my arms and die with you? How miserable we are!

"Yes, mother, I will."

"Yes, Mom, I will."

"I will pray for you every day, Paul."

"I will pray for you every day, Paul."

Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother!

Oh, Mother, Mother! Let’s get up and go back through the years, to a time when this misery no longer weighs on us. Back to when it was just you and me, Mother!

"Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous."

"Maybe you can get a job that isn't so dangerous."

"Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done."

"Yes, Mother, perhaps I can get into the kitchen. That should be easy to do."

"You do it then, and if the others say anything——"

"You do it then, and if the others say anything..."

"That won't worry me, mother——"

"That won't worry me, Mother..."

She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness.

She sighs. Her face gleams white in the darkness.

"Now you must go to sleep, mother."

"Now you need to go to sleep, Mom."

She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders.

She doesn't reply. I get up and wrap my cover around her shoulders.

She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while.

She leans on my arm. She is in pain, so I take her to her room. I stay with her for a little while.

"And you must get well again, mother, before I come back."

"And you must get better, Mom, before I come back."

"Yes, yes, my child."

"Yes, yes, my child."

"You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here."

"You shouldn't send your things to me, Mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here."

How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack."

How helpless she looks lying there in bed, she who loves me more than anyone in the world. As I am about to leave, she says quickly: "I have two pairs of underwear for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack."

Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it.

Oh, Mother! I know how much waiting, walking, and begging it took for you to get these underpants! Oh, Mother, Mother! How can I leave you? Who else has any claim on me but you? I sit here and you lie there. We have so much to say that we could never say it all.

"Good-night, mother."

"Good night, mother."

"Good-night, my child."

"Good night, my child."

The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle.

The room is dark. I hear my mother breathing and the clock ticking. Outside the window, the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle.

On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning.

On the landing, I stumble over my pack. It is already packed because I have to leave early in the morning.

I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;—I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end.

I bite into my pillow. I grip the iron bars of my bed with my fists. I never should have come here. Out there, I was indifferent and often hopeless. I will never be able to feel that way again. I was a soldier. Now I am nothing but anguish for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and endless.

I ought never to have come on leave.

I should never have come home on leave.