Chapter 11

20 min

We count the weeks no more. It was winter when I came up, and when the shells exploded the frozen clods of earth were just as dangerous as the fragments. Now the trees are green again. Our life alternates between billets and the front. We have almost grown accustomed to it; war is a cause of death like cancer and tuberculosis, like influenza and dysentery. The deaths are merely more frequent, more varied and terrible.

We no longer count the weeks. It was winter when I came to the front. When shells exploded, the frozen chunks of earth were just as dangerous as the shell fragments. Now the trees are green again. We spend our time either in billets or at the front. We have almost grown used to this life. War is a cause of death, like cancer, tuberculosis, influenza, or dysentery. Deaths are simply more frequent, more varied, and more terrible.

Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days;—when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.

Our thoughts are clay, shaped by the changing days. When we rest, our thoughts are good. Under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters inside and out.

Everyone is so, not only ourselves here—the things that existed before are no longer valid, and one practically knows them no more. Distinctions, breeding, education are changed, are almost blotted out and hardly recognizable any longer. Sometimes they give an advantage for profiting by a situation;—but they also bring consequences along with them, in that they arouse prejudices which have to be overcome. It is as though formerly we were coins of different provinces; and now we are melted down, and all bear the same stamp. To re-discover the old distinctions, the metal itself must be tested. First we are soldiers and afterwards, in a strange and shamefaced fashion, individual men as well.

Everyone is like this, not just those of us here. The things that mattered before no longer apply, and we scarcely recognize them anymore. Class, upbringing, and education have changed. They have been almost erased and are hardly recognizable. Sometimes they help us take advantage of a situation. But they also have consequences, because they stir up prejudices that must be overcome. It is as if we were once coins from different provinces. Now we have been melted down, and we all bear the same stamp. To find the old differences again, the metal itself must be tested. First we are soldiers. Only afterward are we also individual men, in a strange and embarrassed way.

It is a great brotherhood, which to a condition of life arising out of the midst of danger, out of the tension and forlornness of death, adds something of the good-fellowship of the folk-song, of the feeling of solidarity of convicts, and of the desperate loyalty to one another of men condemned to death—seeking in a wholly unpathetic way a fleeting enjoyment of the hours as they come. If one wants to appraise it, it is at once heroic and banal—but who wants to do that?

It is a great brotherhood, born of danger, tension, and the loneliness of facing death. It has some of the fellowship found in folk songs, the solidarity of prisoners, and the desperate loyalty of men condemned to die. Without sentimentality, these men seek whatever brief pleasure each hour brings. If you wanted to judge this brotherhood, you could call it both heroic and ordinary. But who wants to do that?

It is this, for example, that makes Tjaden spoon down his ham-and-pea soup in such tearing haste when an enemy attack is reported, simply because he cannot be sure that in an hour's time he will still be alive. We have discussed at length, whether it is right or not to do so. Kat condemns it, because, he says, a man has to reckon with the possibility of an abdominal wound, and that is more dangerous on a full stomach than on an empty one.

This is why, for example, Tjaden gulps down his ham-and-pea soup when an enemy attack is reported. He does it simply because he can't be sure he'll still be alive in an hour. We have talked at length about whether it's right to eat so quickly. Kat condemns it. He says a man has to consider the possibility of a stomach wound. A wound like that is more dangerous on a full stomach than on an empty one.

Such things are real problems, they are serious matters to us, they cannot be otherwise. Here, on the borders of death, life follows an amazingly simple course, it is limited to what is most necessary, all else lies buried in gloomy sleep;—in that lies our primitiveness and our survival. Were we more subtly differentiated we must long since have gone mad, have deserted, or have fallen. As in a polar expedition, every expression of life must serve only the preservation of existence, and is absolutely focussed on that. All else is banished because it would consume energies unnecessarily. That is the only way to save ourselves. In the quiet hours when the puzzling reflection of former days, like a blurred mirror, projects beyond me the figure of my present existence, I often sit over against myself, as before a stranger, and wonder how the unnameable active principle that calls itself Life has adapted itself even to this form. All other expressions lie in a winter sleep, life is simply one continual watch against the menace of death;—it has transformed us into unthinking animals in order to give us the weapon of instinct—it has reinforced us with dullness, so that we do not go to pieces before the horror, which would overwhelm us if we had clear, conscious thought—it has awakened in us the sense of comradeship, so that we escape the abyss of solitude—it has lent us the indifference of wild creatures, so that in spite of all we perceive the positive in every moment, and store it up as a reserve against the onslaught of nothingness. Thus we live a closed, hard existence of the utmost superficiality, and rarely does an incident strike out a spark. But then unexpectedly a flame of grievous and terrible yearning flares up.

These things are real problems. They are serious matters to us, and they cannot be otherwise. Here, on the edge of death, life follows an amazingly simple course. It is limited to what is most necessary. Everything else lies buried in a gloomy sleep. That is the source of our primitiveness and our survival. If we were more complex, we would have gone mad, deserted, or fallen long ago. As on a polar expedition, every expression of life must serve only to keep us alive. It must be focused entirely on that. Everything else is banished because it would waste energy. That is the only way to save ourselves. In quiet hours, the puzzling reflection of my former days casts an image of my present life beyond me, like a blurred mirror. I often sit facing myself as if facing a stranger. I wonder how the unnamed force that calls itself Life has adapted even to this form. All other expressions of life lie in a winter sleep. Life is simply a constant watch against the threat of death. It has turned us into unthinking animals to give us the weapon of instinct. It has strengthened us with dullness so we do not fall apart before the horror. The horror would overwhelm us if we thought clearly and consciously. Life has awakened comradeship in us so we can escape the abyss of solitude. It has given us the indifference of wild creatures. So, despite everything, we see the positive in every moment and store it up as a reserve against the onslaught of nothingness. We live a closed, hard life of the utmost superficiality, and rarely does an event strike a spark. But then, unexpectedly, a flame of painful, terrible longing flares up.

Those are the dangerous moments. They show us that the adjustment is only artificial, that it is not simple rest, but sharpest struggle for rest. In the outward form of our life we are hardly distinguishable from Bushmen; but whereas the latter can be so always, because they are so truly, and at best may develop further by exertion of their spiritual forces, with us it is the reverse;—our inner forces are not exerted toward regeneration, but toward degeneration. The Bushmen are primitive and naturally so, but we are primitive in an artificial sense, and by virtue of the utmost effort.

Those are the dangerous moments. They show us that our adjustment is only artificial. It is not simply rest, but a fierce struggle to find rest. On the surface, our way of life is hardly distinguishable from that of Bushmen. But Bushmen can live that way all the time because it is natural to them. At best, they may develop further by using their spiritual powers. For us, the opposite is true. Our inner powers are not working toward renewal, but toward decline. Bushmen are primitive by nature, but we are primitive in an artificial way, and only through the greatest effort.

And at night, waking out of a dream, overwhelmed and bewitched by the crowding faces, a man perceives with alarm how slight is the support, how thin the boundary that divides him from the darkness. We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out. Then the muffled roar of the battle becomes a ring that encircles us, we creep in upon ourselves, and with big eyes stare into the night. Our only comfort is the steady breathing of our comrades asleep, and thus we wait for the morning.

At night, a man wakes from a dream, overwhelmed and spellbound by the faces crowding around him. He realizes with alarm how little supports him, how thin the boundary is between him and the darkness. We are little flames, poorly sheltered by fragile walls against the storm of dissolution and madness. In that storm, we flicker and sometimes almost go out. Then the muffled roar of battle forms a ring around us. We curl in on ourselves and stare wide-eyed into the night. Our only comfort is the steady breathing of our sleeping comrades, and so we wait for morning.

* *

Every day and every hour every shell and every death cuts into this thin support, and the years waste it rapidly. I see how it is already gradually breaking down around me.

Every day, every hour, every shell and every death weakens this fragile support, and the years wear it away quickly. I can see it slowly breaking down around me already.

There is the mad story of Detering.

Then there is Detering's crazy story.

He was one of those who kept himself to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our new billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us. It had no leaves, but was one white mass of blossom.

He was the kind of person who kept to himself. His misfortune was that he saw a cherry tree in a garden. We were just coming back from the front line. At a bend in the road near our new quarters, the cherry tree stood before us, beautiful in the early morning light. It had no leaves, but was covered in white blossoms.

In the evening Detering was not to be seen. Then at last he came back and had a couple of branches of cherry blossom in his hand. We made fun of him, and asked whether he was going to a wedding. He made no answer, but laid them on his bed. During the night I heard him making a noise, he seemed to be packing. I sensed something amiss and went over to him. He made out it was nothing, and I said to him: "Don't do anything silly, Detering."

That evening, Detering was nowhere to be seen. When he finally came back, he was carrying a couple of cherry blossom branches. We made fun of him and asked if he was going to a wedding. He didn’t answer, but laid the branches on his bed. During the night, I heard him making noise. He seemed to be packing. I sensed something was wrong and went over to him. He pretended nothing was wrong, and I said to him: "Don’t do anything silly, Detering."

"Ach, why—it's merely that I can't sleep——"

"Oh, it's just that I can't sleep..."

"What did you pick the cherry branches for?"

"Why did you pick the cherry branches?"

"I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied, evasively—and after a while: "I have a big orchard with cherry trees at home. When they are in blossom, from the hay loft they look like one single sheet, so white. It is just the time."

"I might have been going to get some more cherry branches," he replied evasively. After a while, he added, "I have a big cherry orchard at home. When the trees are in bloom, they look like one white sheet from the hayloft. It's just the right time."

"Perhaps you will get leave soon. You may even be sent back as a farmer."

"Perhaps you will get time off soon. You may even be sent back to work as a farmer."

He nodded, but he was far away. When these peasants are excited they have a curious expression, a mixture of cow and yearning god, half stupid and half rapt. In order to turn him away from his thoughts I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a murmur. That was suspicious, for he is usually tight-fisted. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened; in the morning he was as usual.

He nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. When these peasants get excited, they have a strange expression. They look like a mix of a cow and a yearning god, half stupid and half absorbed. To distract him from his thoughts, I asked him for a piece of bread. He gave it to me without a word of complaint. That was suspicious, because he is usually stingy. So I stayed awake. Nothing happened. In the morning, he was back to normal.

Apparently he had noticed that I had been watching him;—but the second morning after he was gone. I noticed it, but said nothing, in order to give him time; he might perhaps get through. Various fellows have already got into Holland.

Apparently, he had noticed me watching him. But on the second morning, he was gone. I noticed he was gone, but said nothing, to give him time. Perhaps he could get through. Several fellows have already made it into Holland.

But at roll call he was missed. A week after we heard that he had been caught by the field gendarmes, those despicable military police. He had headed toward Germany, that was hopeless, of course—and, of course, he did everything else just as idiotically. Anyone might have known that his flight was only home-sickness and a momentary aberration. But what does a court martial hundreds of miles behind the front-line know about it? We have heard nothing more of Detering.

But he was missing at roll call. A week later, we heard that the field gendarmes, those despicable military police, had caught him. He had headed toward Germany. That was hopeless, of course. And of course, everything else he did was just as idiotic. Anyone could have seen that he had run away out of homesickness and a momentary lapse of judgment. But what does a court martial hundreds of miles behind the front line know about that? We have heard nothing more of Detering.

* *

But sometimes it broke out in other ways, this danger, these pent-up things, as from an overheated boiler. It will be enough to tell how Berger met his end.

But sometimes this danger, these pent-up feelings, burst out in other ways, like steam from an overheated boiler. It is enough to tell how Berger died.

Our trenches have now for some time been shot to pieces, and we have an elastic line, so that there is practically no longer any proper trench warfare. When attack and counter-attack have waged backwards and forwards there remains a broken line and a bitter struggle from crater to crater. The front line has been penetrated, and everywhere small groups have established themselves, the fight is carried on from clusters of shell-holes.

Our trenches were blasted apart some time ago, and our line now shifts. As a result, there is practically no proper trench warfare anymore. Attacks and counterattacks sweep back and forth, leaving a broken line and a bitter struggle from crater to crater. The front line has been breached, and small groups have taken positions everywhere. The fighting goes on among clusters of shell holes.

We are in a crater, the English are coming down obliquely, they are turning our flank and working in behind us. We are surrounded. It is not easy to surrender, fog and smoke hang over us, no one would recognize that we wanted to give ourselves up, and perhaps we don't want to, a man doesn't even know himself at such moments. We hear the explosions of the hand-grenades coming toward us. Our machine-gun sweeps over the semicircle in front of us. The cooling-water evaporates, we hastily pass round the case, every man pisses in it, and thus we again have water, and are able to continue firing. But behind us the attack crashes ever nearer.

We are in a crater. The English are coming down at an angle, turning our flank and moving in behind us. We are surrounded. Surrendering is not easy. Fog and smoke hang over us, and no one would recognize that we wanted to give ourselves up. And perhaps we don't want to. At moments like this, a man doesn't even know what he wants. We hear hand grenades exploding as they come toward us. Our machine gun sweeps across the semicircle in front of us. The cooling water evaporates, so we quickly pass the casing around. Every man pisses in it, and that gives us water again, so we can keep firing. But behind us, the attack crashes ever closer.

A few minutes and we are lost.

In a few minutes, we are lost.

Then, at closest range, a second machine-gun bursts out. It is set up in a crater alongside us; Berger has fetched it, and now the counter-attack comes over from behind; we are set free and make contact with the rear.

Then a second machine gun opens fire at very close range. Berger has brought it and set it up in a crater beside us. Now the counterattack comes from behind. We are freed and make contact with the troops in the rear.

Afterwards, as we lie in comparatively good cover, one of the food-carriers reports that a couple of hundred yards distant there lies a wounded messenger-dog.

Later, as we lie in fairly good cover, one of the food carriers reports a wounded messenger dog nearby. The dog is a couple of hundred yards away.

"Where?" asks Berger.

"Where?" Berger asks.

The other describes the place to him. Berger goes off either to fetch the beast in or to shoot it. Six months ago he would not have cared, he would have been reasonable. We try to prevent him. Then, as he goes off grimly, all we can say is: "You're mad," and let him go. For these cases of front-line madness become dangerous if one is not able to fling the man to the ground and hold him fast. And Berger is six feet and the most powerful man in the company.

The other man tells him where the animal is. Berger goes off to bring it back or shoot it. Six months ago, he would not have cared. He would have been reasonable. We try to stop him. Then, as he goes off with grim determination, all we can say is, "You're mad," and let him go. These cases of front-line madness become dangerous if you cannot throw the man to the ground and hold him there. And Berger is six feet tall and the strongest man in the company.

He is absolutely mad for he has to pass through the barrage; but this lightning that lowers somewhere above us all has struck him and made him demented. It affects others so that they begin to rave, to run away—there was one man who even tried to dig himself into the ground with hands, feet, and teeth.

He is completely mad, because he has to pass through the barrage. But this lightning looming somewhere above us all has struck him and driven him mad. It makes others rave and run away. One man even tried to dig himself into the ground with his hands, feet, and teeth.

It is true, such things are often simulated, but the pretence itself is a symptom. Berger, who means to finish off the dog, is carried off with a wound in the pelvis, and one of the fellows who carry him gets a bullet in the cheek while doing it.

It is true that such things are often faked, but even the act of faking is a symptom. Berger intends to put the dog out of its misery, but he is carried away with a wound in his pelvis. One of the men carrying him is shot in the cheek.

* *

Müller is dead. Someone shot him point blank with a Verey light in the stomach. He lived for half an hour, quite conscious, and in terrible pain.

Müller is dead. Someone shot him in the stomach at point-blank range with a Verey light. He lived for half an hour, fully conscious and in terrible pain.

Before he died he handed over his pocketbook to me, and bequeathed me his boots—the same that he once inherited from Kemmerich. I wear them, for they fit me quite well. After me Tjaden will get them, I have promised them to him.

Before he died, he gave me his pocketbook and left me his boots. They were the same boots he had inherited from Kemmerich. I wear them because they fit me quite well. After me, Tjaden will get them. I promised them to him.

We have been able to bury Müller, but he is not likely to remain long undisturbed. Our lines are falling back. There are too many fresh English and American regiments over there. There's too much corned beef and white wheaten bread. Too many new guns. Too many aeroplanes.

We managed to bury Müller, but he probably won't lie undisturbed for long. Our lines are falling back. There are too many fresh English and American regiments over there. There's too much corned beef and white bread. Too many new guns. Too many airplanes.

But we are emaciated and starved. Our food is so bad and mixed up with so much substitute stuff that it makes us ill. The factory owners in Germany have grown wealthy;—dysentery dissolves our bowels. The latrine poles are always densely crowded; the people at home ought to be shown these grey, yellow, miserable, wasted faces here, these bent figures from whose bodies the colic wrings out the blood, and who with lips trembling and distorted with pain, grin at one another and say: "It is not much sense pulling up one's trousers again——"

But we are starving and wasted away. Our food is so bad and mixed with so many substitutes that it makes us sick. Factory owners in Germany have grown rich. Dysentery is eating away at our bowels. The latrine poles are always crowded. People back home should see the gray, yellow, miserable, wasted faces here. They should see these hunched men, whose cramps force blood from their bodies. Their lips tremble and twist with pain, but they grin at one another and say, "There's not much point in pulling your trousers up again."

Our artillery is fired out, it has too few shells and the barrels are so worn that they shoot uncertainly, and scatter so widely as even to fall on ourselves. We have too few horses. Our fresh troops are anaemic boys in need of rest, who cannot carry a pack, but merely know how to die. By thousands. They understand nothing about warfare, they simply go on and let themselves be shot down. A single flyer routed two companies of them for a joke, just as they came fresh from the train—before they had ever heard of such a thing as cover.

Our artillery is worn out. It has too few shells, and the barrels are so worn that they fire unpredictably. The shells scatter so widely that some even land on us. We have too few horses. Our fresh troops are anemic boys who need rest. They cannot carry a pack. All they know how to do is die. By the thousands. They understand nothing about warfare. They just keep going and let themselves be shot down. A single pilot, just for a joke, sent two companies of them running. They had just arrived by train and had never even heard of taking cover.

"Germany ought to be empty soon," says Kat.

"Germany should be empty soon," says Kat.

We have given up hope that some day an end may come. We never think so far. A man can stop a bullet and be killed; he can get wounded, and then the hospital is his next stop. There, if they do not amputate him, he sooner or later falls into the hands of one of those staff surgeons who, with the War Service Cross in his button-hole, says to him: "What, one leg a bit short? If you have any pluck you don't need to run at the front. The man is A1. Dismiss!"

We have given up hope that the war may end someday. We never think that far ahead. A man can be hit by a bullet and killed. Or he can be wounded and sent to the hospital. There, if they do not amputate a limb, he ends up seeing one of the staff surgeons sooner or later. The surgeon wears a War Service Cross in his buttonhole and says: "What, one leg a little short? If you have any courage, you don't need to run at the front. The man is A1. Dismissed!"

Kat tells a story that has travelled the whole length of the front from the Vosges to Flanders;—of the staff surgeon who reads the names on the list, and when a man comes before him, without looking up, says: "A1. We need soldiers up there." A fellow with a wooden leg comes up before him, the staff surgeon again says A1—— "And then," Kat raises his voice, "the fellow says to him: 'I already have a wooden leg, but when I go back again and they shoot off my head, then I will get a wooden head made and become a staff surgeon." This answer tickles us all immensely.

Kat tells a story that has spread along the whole front, from the Vosges to Flanders. A staff surgeon reads names from a list. When a man comes before him, he says without looking up, "A1. We need soldiers up there." A fellow with a wooden leg comes before him, and the staff surgeon again says A1. "And then," Kat says, raising his voice, "the fellow says to him: 'I already have a wooden leg, but when I go back again and they shoot off my head, then I'll get a wooden head made and become a staff surgeon.'" The answer makes us all laugh.

There may be good doctors, and there are, lots of them; all the same, every soldier some time during his hundreds of inspections falls into the clutches of one of these countless hero-grabbers who pride themselves on changing as many C3's and B3's as possible into A1's.

There may be good doctors, and there are lots of them. Even so, every soldier has hundreds of inspections and eventually falls into the clutches of one of these countless hero-grabbers. They pride themselves on changing as many C3s and B3s as possible into A1s.

There are many such stories, they are mostly far more bitter. All the same, they have nothing to do with mutiny or lead-swinging. They are merely honest and call a thing by its name; for there is a very great deal of fraud, injustice, and baseness in the army.—Is it nothing that regiment after regiment returns again and again to the ever more hopeless struggle, that attack follows attack along the weakening, retreating, crumbling line?

There are many such stories, and most are far more bitter. Even so, they have nothing to do with mutiny or pretending to be ill to avoid duty. They are simply honest and call things what they are. For there is a great deal of fraud, injustice, and cruelty in the army. Does it count for nothing that regiment after regiment returns again and again to the increasingly hopeless struggle? Does it count for nothing that attack follows attack along the weakening, retreating, crumbling line?

From a mockery the tanks have become a terrible weapon. Armoured they come rolling on in long lines, and more than anything else embody for us the horror of war.

Once a joke, tanks have become a terrifying weapon. They roll toward us in long lines, covered in armor. More than anything else, they embody the horror of war for us.

We do not see the guns that bombard us; the attacking lines of the enemy infantry are men like ourselves; but these tanks are machines, their caterpillars run on as endless as the war, they are annihilation, they roll without feeling into the craters, and climb up again without stopping, a fleet of roaring, smoke-belching armour-clads, invulnerable steel beasts squashing the dead and the wounded—we shrivel up in our thin skin before them, against their colossal weight our arms are sticks of straw, and our hand-grenades matches.

We cannot see the guns bombarding us. The enemy infantry charging at us are men like us. But these tanks are machines. Their tracks go on as endlessly as the war. They are annihilation. They roll without feeling into craters and climb out again without stopping. They are a fleet of roaring, smoke-belching armored vehicles, invulnerable steel beasts crushing the dead and wounded. We shrink before them in our thin skin. Against their enormous weight, our weapons are sticks of straw, and our hand grenades are matches.

Shells, gas clouds, and flotillas of tanks—shattering, starvation, death.

Shells, gas clouds, and waves of tanks: destruction, starvation, death.

Dysentery, influenza, typhus—murder, burning, death.

Dysentery, flu, typhus. Murder, burning, death.

Trenches, hospitals, the common grave—there are no other possibilities.

Trenches, hospitals, the mass grave. There are no other possibilities.

* *

In one attack our Company Commander, Bertinck, falls. He was one of those superb front-line officers who are foremost in every hot place. He was with us for two years without being wounded, so that something had to happen in the end.

During one attack, our company commander, Bertinck, is killed. He was one of those superb front-line officers who led the way wherever the fighting was fiercest. He was with us for two years without being wounded, so something had to happen in the end.

We occupy a crater and get surrounded. The stink of petroleum or oil blows across with the fumes of powder. Two fellows with a flame-thrower are seen, one carries the tin on his back, the other has the hose in his hands from which the fire spouts. If they get so near that they can reach us we are done for, we cannot retreat yet.

We take a crater and get surrounded. The stink of petroleum or oil drifts over with the gunpowder fumes. We see two men with a flamethrower. One carries the tank on his back. The other holds the hose that shoots out fire. If they get close enough to reach us, we are finished. We cannot retreat yet.

We open fire on them. But they work nearer and things begin to look bad. Bertinck is lying in the hole with us. When he sees that we cannot escape because under the sharp fire we must make the most of this cover, he takes a rifle, crawls out of the hole, and lying down propped on his elbows, he takes aim. He fires—the same moment a bullet smacks into him, they have got him. Still he lies and aims again;—once he shifts and again takes his aim; at last the rifle cracks. Bertinck lets the gun drop and says: "Good," and slips back into the hole. The hindermost of the two flame-throwers is hit, he falls, the hose slips away from the other fellow, the fire squirts about on all sides and the man burns.

We open fire on them. But they move closer, and things begin to look bad. Bertinck is lying in the hole with us. He sees that we cannot escape because the heavy fire forces us to stay under cover. So he takes a rifle and crawls out of the hole. He lies down, props himself on his elbows, and aims. He fires. At that same moment, a bullet hits him. They have got him. Still, he lies there and aims again. He shifts position once and takes aim again. At last the rifle cracks. Bertinck drops the gun and says, "Good," then slips back into the hole. The man farther back with the flamethrower is hit and falls. The hose slips away from the other man. Fire sprays in all directions, and the man burns.

Bertinck has a chest wound. After a while a fragment smashes away his chin, and the same fragment has sufficient force to tear open Leer's hip. Leer groans as he supports himself on his arm, he bleeds quickly, no one can help him. Like an emptying tube, after a couple of minutes he collapses.

Bertinck has a chest wound. After a while, a fragment smashes his chin off. The same fragment has enough force to tear open Leer’s hip. Leer groans, supporting himself on his arm. He is bleeding fast, and no one can help him. After a couple of minutes, he collapses like an emptying tube.

What use is it to him now that he was such a good mathematician at school.

What good does it do him now that he was so good at math in school?

* *

The months pass by. The summer of 1918 is the most bloody and the most terrible. The days stand like angels in gold and blue, incomprehensible, above the ring of annihilation. Every man here knows that we are losing the war. Not much is said about it, we are falling back, we will not be able to attack again after this big offensive, we have no more men and no more ammunition.

The months pass. The summer of 1918 is the bloodiest and most terrible of all. The days stand like angels in gold and blue, beyond understanding, above the circle of destruction. Every man here knows we are losing the war. We do not say much about it. We are falling back. After this major offensive, we will not be able to attack again. We have no more men and no more ammunition.

Still the campaign goes on—the dying goes on——

Still, the campaign goes on. The dying goes on.

Summer of 1918—Never has life in its niggardliness seemed to us so desirable as now;—the red poppies in the meadows round our billets, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the black, mysterious trees of the twilight, the stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long sleep——. O Life, life, life!

Summer of 1918. Life has never seemed so desirable to us as it does now, despite how little it gives us. The red poppies in the meadows around our quarters, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass. The warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the dark, mysterious trees at twilight. The stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long sleep. Oh, life, life, life!

Summer of 1918—Never was so much silently suffered as in the moment when we depart once again for the front-line. Wild, tormenting rumours of an armistice and peace are in the air, they lay hold on our hearts and make the return to the front harder than ever.

Summer of 1918. We have never suffered so much in silence as we do now, leaving once again for the front line. Wild, tormenting rumors of an armistice and peace are in the air. They grip our hearts and make returning to the front harder than ever.

Summer of 1918—Never was life in the line more bitter and more full of horror than in the hours of the bombardment, when the blanched faces lie in the dirt, and the hands clutch at the one thought: No! No! Not now! Not now at the last moment!

Summer of 1918: Life on the front line was never more bitter or horrific than during the hours of bombardment. Pale faces lie in the dirt, and hands cling to a single thought: No! No! Not now! Not now, at the last moment!

Summer of 1918—Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, insensate question: Why? Why do they not make an end? And why do these rumours of an end fly about?

Summer of 1918. A breath of hope sweeps over the scorched fields. A raging fever of impatience, disappointment, and the most agonizing fear of death. A senseless question: Why? Why don’t they end it? And why do rumors of an end keep spreading?

* *

There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every one German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces.

There are so many airmen here, and they are so confident that they chase individual men as if they were hares. For every German plane, there are at least five English and American planes. For every hungry, miserable German soldier, there are five enemy soldiers, fresh and fit. For every loaf of German army bread, there are fifty tins of canned beef on their side. We are not beaten, because we are better and more experienced soldiers. We are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces.

Behind us lie rainy weeks—grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;—and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down.

Weeks of rain lie behind us. Grey sky, grey liquid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain immediately soaks through our overcoats and clothes. We stay wet the whole time we are in the line. We never dry out. Those who still have high boots tie sandbags around the tops so the mud does not pour in so fast. Rifles and uniforms are caked in mud. Everything is fluid and dissolved. The earth is one dripping, soaked, oily mass, with yellow pools streaked by spirals of red blood. The dead, the wounded, and the survivors slowly sink into it.

The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence.

The storm lashes us. From the confusion of gray and yellow, a hail of splinters draws childlike cries from the wounded. In the night, shattered life groans wearily into the silence.

Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live.

Our hands are earth, our bodies are clay, and our eyes are pools of rain. We do not know if we are still alive.

Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last—just at the last——"

Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jellyfish, damp and oppressive. On one of these late summer days, Kat falls while bringing food. We are alone together. I bandage his wound. His shin seems to be smashed. The wound has reached the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last, just at the last..."

I comfort him. "Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved——"

I comfort him. "Who knows how much longer this mess will go on! Now you're safe..."

The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood.

The wound starts bleeding quickly. I can't leave Kat alone while I look for a stretcher. Besides, I don't know of a stretcher-bearers' post nearby.

Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him.

Kat is not very heavy, so I lift him onto my back and carry him to the dressing station.

Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.

We rest twice. He suffers terribly along the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic. I breathe heavily and sweat, and my face is swollen from the strain of carrying him. Even so, I urge him to let us keep going because the place is dangerous.

"Shall we go on again, Kat?"

"Should we keep going, Kat?"

"Must, Paul."

"Then come."

I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm.

I lift him up. He stands on his uninjured leg and leans against a tree. I carefully lift his wounded leg. Then he jumps, and I tuck the knee of his uninjured leg under my arm too.

The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over.

The going gets harder. Shells often whistle past. I move as quickly as I can because blood from Kat's wound is dripping onto the ground. We cannot protect ourselves properly from the explosions. By the time we can take cover, the danger has passed.

We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last."

We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say sadly, "we're finally going to be separated."

He is silent and looks at me.

He stays silent and looks at me.

"Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago."

"Do you remember, Kat, how we took the goose? And how you carried me out of the shelling when I was wounded for the first time? I was still a young recruit then. I cried. Kat, that was almost three years ago."

He nods.

The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left.

The pain of being alone rises inside me. When Kat is taken away, I won't have a single friend left.

"Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back."

"Kat, we must see each other again, even if the war ends before you come back."

"Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly.

"Do you think they'll rate me A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly.

"With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit."

"With rest, it will get better. The joint is fine. It may limp a little."

"Give me another cigarette," he says.

"Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat—Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years—it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again.

"Perhaps we could do something together later, Kat." I am so miserable. I cannot believe that perhaps I will never see Kat again. Kat, my friend. Kat with his drooping shoulders and his poor, thin mustache. Kat, whom I know better than any other man. Kat, with whom I have shared these years.

"In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you."

"Anyway, give me your home address, Kat. And here's mine. I'll write it down for you."

I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him.

I write his address in my notebook. I already feel so alone, though he is still sitting beside me. Couldn't I quickly shoot myself in the foot so I could go with him?

Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers.

Suddenly, Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let's keep going," he stammers.

I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much.

I jump up, eager to help him, and pick him up. I start running at a slow, steady pace so I don't jolt his leg too much.

My throat is parched; everything dances red and black before my eyes, I stagger on doggedly and pitilessly and at last reach the dressing station.

My throat is dry. Everything dances red and black before my eyes. I stagger on, determined and without pity, until I finally reach the dressing station.

There I drop down on my knees, but have still enough strength to fall on to the side where Kat's sound leg is. After a few minutes I straighten myself up again. My legs and my hands tremble. I have trouble in finding my water bottle, to take a pull. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile—Kat is saved.

There I drop to my knees, but I still have enough strength to fall toward Kat's uninjured leg. After a few minutes, I sit up again. My legs and hands are trembling. I struggle to find my water bottle and take a drink. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile. Kat is saved.

After a while I begin to sort out the confusion of voices that falls on my ears.

After a while, I begin to make sense of the jumble of voices I hear.

"You might have spared yourself that," says an orderly.

"You could have spared yourself that," says an orderly.

I look at him without comprehending.

I look at him without understanding.

He points to Kat. "He is stone dead."

He points to Kat. "He is definitely dead."

I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say.

I don't understand him. "He's been hit in the shin," I say.

The orderly stands still. "That as well."

The orderly stops. "That too."

I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly.

I turn around. My vision is still blurry. Sweat breaks out again and runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "He fainted," I say quickly.

The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that."

The orderly whistles softly. "I know better. He's dead. I'd bet anything on it."

I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted."

I shake my head. "That's not possible. I was talking to him only ten minutes ago. He's fainted."

Kat's hands are warm, I pass my arm under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see——" The orderly whistles once more through his teeth.

Kat's hands are warm. I slip my arm under his shoulders to rub some tea on his temples. I feel my fingers getting wet. When I pull them out from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see..." The orderly whistles through his teeth again.

On the way without my having noticed it, Kat has caught a splinter in the head. There is just one little hole, it must have been a very tiny, stray splinter. But it has sufficed. Kat is dead.

On the way, Kat was hit in the head by a fragment, and I did not notice. There is just one little hole. The stray fragment must have been very tiny. But it was enough. Kat is dead.

Slowly I get up.

I slowly get up.

"Would you like to take his pay book and his things?" the lance-corporal asks me.

"Would you like to take his pay book and his things?" the lance corporal asks me.

I nod, and he gives them to me.

The orderly is mystified. "You are not related, are you?"

The orderly is puzzled. "You're not related, are you?"

No, we are not related. No, we are not related.

Do I walk? Have I feet still? I raise my eyes, I let them move round, and turn myself with them, one circle, one circle, and I stand in the midst. All is as usual. Only the Militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky has died.

Am I walking? Do I still have feet? I look up and let my eyes move around me. I turn with them, one circle, one circle, and stand in the middle. Everything is as usual. Only the militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky has died.

Then I know nothing more.

Then I know nothing else.