All quiet on the Western Front
their shoulders are too narrow, their bodies too slight; no uniform
was ever made to these childish measurements.
Between five and ten recruits fall to every old hand.
A surprise gas-attack carries off a lot of them. They have not yet
learned what to do. We found one dug-out full of them, with blue
heads and black lips. Some of them in a shell hole took their masks
off too soon; they did not know that the gas lies longest in the
hollows; when they saw others on top without masks they pulled theirs
off too and swallowed enough to scorch their lungs. Their condition
is hopeless, they choke to death with hæmorrhages and suffocation.
* *
In one part of the trench I suddenly run into Himmelstoss. We dive
into the same dug-out. Breathless we are all lying one beside the
other waiting for the charge.
When we run out again, although I am very excited, I suddenly think:
"Where's Himmelstoss?" Quickly I jump back into the dug-out and find
him with a small scratch lying in a corner pretending to be wounded.
His face looks sullen. He is in a panic; he is new to it too. But
it makes me mad that the young recruits should be out there and he
here.
"Get out!" I spit.
He does not stir, his lips quiver, his moustache twitches.
"Out!" I repeat.
He draws up his legs, crouches back against the wall, and shows his
teeth like a cur.
I seize him by the arm and try to pull him up. He barks.
That is too much for me. I grab him by the neck and shake him like a
sack, his head jerks from side to side.
"You lump, will you get out--you hound, you skunk, sneak out of it,
would you?" His eye becomes glassy, I knock his head against the
wall--"You cow"--I kick him in the ribs--"You swine"--I push him
toward the door and shove him out head first.
Another wave of our attack has just come up. A lieutenant is with
them. He sees us and yells; "Forward, forward, join in, follow."
And the word of command does what all my banging could not.
Himmelstoss hears the order, looks round him as if awakened, and
follows on.
I come after and watch him go over. Once more he is the smart
Himmelstoss of the parade-ground, he has even outstripped the
lieutenant and is far ahead.
Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns,
hand-grenades--words, words, but they hold the horror of the world.
Our faces are encrusted, our thoughts are devastated, we are weary to
death; when the attack comes we shall have to strike many of the men
with our fists to waken them and make them come with us--our eyes are
burnt, our hands are torn, our knees bleed, our elbows are raw.
How long has it been? Weeks--months--years? Only days. We see time
pass in the colourless faces of the dying, we cram food into us, we
run, we throw, we shoot, we kill, we lie about, we are feeble and
spent, and nothing supports us but the knowledge that there are still
feebler, still more spent, still more helpless ones there who, with
staring eyes, look upon us as gods that escape death many times.
In the few hours of rest we teach them. "There, see that waggle-top?
That's a mortar coming. Keep down, it will go clean over. But if it
comes this way, then run for it. You can run from a mortar."
We sharpen their ears to the malicious, hardly audible buzz of the
smaller shells that are not so easily distinguished. They must pick
them out from the general din by their insect-like hum--we explain to
them that these are far more dangerous than the big ones that can be
heard long beforehand.
We show them how to take cover from aircraft, how to simulate a dead
man when one is overrun in an attack, how to time hand-grenades so
that they explode half a second before hitting the ground; we teach
them to fling themselves into holes as quick as lightning before the
shells with instantaneous fuses; we show them how to clean up a
trench with a handful of bombs; we explain the difference between the
fuse-length of the enemy bombs and our own; we put them wise to the
sound of gas shells;--show them all the tricks that can save them
from death.
They listen, they are docile--but when it begins again, in their
excitement they do everything wrong.
Haie Westhus drags off with a great wound in his back through which
the lung pulses at every breath. I can only press his hand; "It's
all up, Paul," he groans and bites his arm because of the pain.
We see men living with their skulls blown open; we see soldiers run
with their two feet cut off, they stagger on their splintered stumps
into the next shell-hole; a lance-corporal crawls a mile and a half
on his hands dragging his smashed knee after him; another goes to the
dressing station and over his clasped hands bulge his intestines; we
see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces; we find one man
who has held the artery of his arm in his teeth for two hours in
order not to bleed to death. The sun goes down, night comes, the
shells whine, life is at an end.
Still the little piece of convulsed earth in which we lie is held.
We have yielded no more than a few hundred yards of it as a prize to
the enemy. But on every yard there lies a dead man.
* *
We have been relieved. The wheels roll beneath us, we stand dully,
and when the call "Mind--wire" comes, we bend our knees. It was
summer when we came up, the trees were still green, now it is autumn
and the night is grey and wet. The lorries stop, we climb out--a
confused heap, a remnant of many names. On either side stand people,
dark, calling out the numbers of the regiments, the companies. And
at each call a little group separates itself off, a small handful of
dirty, pallid soldiers, a dreadfully small handful, and a dreadfully
small remnant.
Now someone is calling the number of our company, it is, yes, the
Company-Commander, he has got one too, his arm is in a sling. We go
over to him and I recognize Kat and Albert, we stand together, lean
against each other, and look at one another.
And we hear the number of our company called again and again. He
will call a long time, they do not hear him in the hospitals and
shell-holes.
Once again: "Second Company, this way!"
And then more softly: "Nobody else Second Company?"
He is silent, and then huskily he says: "Is that all?" and gives the
order: "Number!"
The morning is grey, it was still summer when we came up, and we were
one hundred and fifty strong. Now we freeze, it is autumn, the
leaves rustle, the voices flutter out wearily:
"One--two--three--four----" and cease at thirty-two. And there is a
long silence before the voice asks: "Anyone else?"--and waits and
then says softly: "In squads----" and then breaks off and is only
able to finish: "Second Company----" with difficulty: "Second
Company--march easy!"
A line, a short line trudges off into the morning.
Thirty-two men.
CHAPTER VII
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* *
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.
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.
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.
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?
* *
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