Chapter 12

3 min

It is autumn. There are not many of the old hands left. I am the last of the seven fellows from our class.

It is autumn. Not many of the veteran soldiers are left. I am the last of the seven boys from our class.

Everyone talks of peace and armistice. All wait. If it again proves an illusion, then they will break up; hope is high, it cannot be taken away again without an upheaval. If there is not peace, then there will be revolution.

Everyone talks about peace and an armistice. Everyone waits. If peace and an armistice prove to be an illusion again, they will break up. Hopes are high, and they cannot be taken away again without an upheaval. If there is no peace, there will be a revolution.

I have fourteen days rest, because I have swallowed a bit of gas; in a little garden I sit the whole day long in the sun. The armistice is coming soon, I believe it now too. Then we will go home.

I have fourteen days to rest because I breathed in a little gas. I sit in a small garden in the sun all day. The armistice is coming soon. I believe that now too. Then we will go home.

Here my thoughts stop and will not go any farther. All that meets me, all that floods over me are but feelings—greed of life, love of home, yearning of the blood, intoxication of deliverance. But no aims.

Here my thoughts stop and go no further. Everything that comes to me, everything that washes over me, is just feeling: hunger for life, love of home, a yearning in my blood, the thrill of being free. But I have no aims.

Had we returned home in 1916, out of the suffering and the strength of our experiences we might have unleashed a storm. Now if we go back we will be weary, broken, burnt out, rootless, and without hope. We will not be able to find our way any more.

If we had returned home in 1916, our suffering and the strength of our experiences might have unleashed a storm. Now, if we go back, we will be tired, broken, burned out, rootless, and without hope. We will no longer be able to find our way.

And men will not understand us—for the generation that grew up before us, though it has passed these years with us here, already had a home and a calling; now it will return to its old occupations, and the war will be forgotten—and the generation that has grown up after us will be strange to us and push us aside. We will be superfluous even to ourselves, we will grow older, a few will adapt themselves, some others will merely submit, and most will be bewildered;—the years will pass by and in the end we shall fall into ruin.

And people will not understand us. The generation before us spent these years here with us, but they already had homes and careers. Now they will return to their old occupations, and the war will be forgotten. The generation that grew up after us will be strangers to us, and they will push us aside. We will feel useless even to ourselves. We will grow older. A few will adapt, some will simply accept their fate, and most will be bewildered. The years will pass, and in the end we will fall into ruin.

But perhaps all this that I think is mere melancholy and dismay, which will fly away as the dust, when I stand once again beneath the poplars and listen to the rustling of their leaves. It cannot be that it has gone, the yearning that made our blood unquiet, the unknown, the perplexing, the oncoming things, the thousand faces of the future, the melodies from dreams and from books, the whispers and divinations of women, it cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels.

But perhaps all these thoughts are only sadness and fear. Perhaps they will blow away like dust when I stand beneath the poplars again and listen to their leaves rustling. It cannot all be gone: the longing that stirred our blood, the unknown and puzzling things to come, the thousand faces of the future, the melodies from dreams and books, the whispers and foretellings of women. All this cannot have vanished in bombardments, despair, and brothels.

Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace.

Here the trees look bright and golden, and red rowan berries stand out among the leaves. White country roads stretch to the horizon, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumors of peace.

I stand up.

I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me.

I am very quiet. Let the months and years come. They bring me nothing more, and they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone and without hope that I can face them without fear. The life that has carried me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. I do not know whether I have brought it under control. But as long as it is there, it will seek its own way out, regardless of my will.

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

He died in October 1918, on a day when the whole front was so quiet and still that the army report contained just one sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.

He had fallen forward and lay on the ground as if sleeping. When he was turned over, it was clear he could not have suffered long. His face was calm, as if he were almost glad the end had come.

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

The end