All Quiet on the Western Front

  I am often on guard over the Russians. In the darkness one sees their forms move like sick storks, like great birds. They come close up to the wire fence and lean their faces against it; their fingers hook round the mesh. Often many stand side by side, and breathe the wind that comes down from the moors and the forest.

  They rarely speak and then only a few words. They are more human and more brotherly towards one another, it seems to me, than we are. But perhaps that is merely because they feel themselves to be more unfortunate than us. Anyway the war is over so far as they are concerned. But to wait for dysentery is not much of a life either.

  The territorials who are in charge of them say that they were much more lively at first. They used to have intrigues among themselves, as always happens, and it would often come to blows and knives. But now they are quite apathetic and listless; most of them do not masturbate any more, they are so feeble, though otherwise things come to such a pass that whole huts full of them do it.

  They stand at the wire fence; sometimes one goes away and then another at once takes his place in the line. Most of them are silent; occasionally one begs a cigarette butt.

  I see their dark forms, their beards move in the wind. I know nothing of them except that they are prisoners; and that is exactly what troubles me. Their life is obscure and guiltless;—if I could know more of them, what their names are, how they live, what they are waiting for, what their burdens are, then my emotion would have an object and might become sympathy. But as it is I perceive behind them only the suffering of the creature, the awful melancholy of life and the pitilessness of men.

  A word of command has made these silent figures our enemies; a word of command might transform them into our friends. At some table a document is signed by some persons whom none of us knows, and then for years together that very crime on which formerly the world’s condemnation and severest penalty fall, becomes our highest aim. But who can draw such a distinction when he looks at these quiet men with their childlike faces and apostles’ beards. Any noncommissioned officer is more of an enemy to a recruit, any schoolmaster to a pupil, than they are to us. And yet we would shoot at them again and they at us if they were free.

  I am frightened: I dare think this way no more. This way lies the abyss. It is not now the time but I will not lose these thoughts, I will keep them, shut them away until the war is ended. My heart beats fast: this is the aim, the great, the sole aim, that I have thought of in the trenches; that I have looked for as the only possibility of existence after this annihilation of all human feeling; this is a task that will make life afterward worthy of these hideous years.

  I take out my cigarettes, break each one in half and give them to the Russians. They bow to me and then light the cigarettes. Now red points glow in every face. They comfort me; it looks as though there were little windows in dark village cottages saying that behind them are rooms full of peace.

  The days go by. On a foggy morning another of the Russians is buried; almost every day one of them dies. I am on guard during the burial. The prisoners saying a chorale, they sing in parts, and it sounds almost as if there were no voices, but an organ far away on the moor.

  The burial is quickly over.

  In the evening they stand again at the wire fence and the wind comes down to them from the beech woods. The stars are cold.

  I now know a few of those who speak a little German. There is a musician amongst them, he says he used to be a violinist in Berlin. When he hears that I can play the piano he fetches his violin and plays. The others sit down and lean their backs against the fence. He stands up and plays, sometimes he has that absent expression which violinists get when they close their eyes, or again he sways the instrument to the rhythm and smiles across to me.

  He plays mostly folk songs and the others hum with him. They are like a country of dark hills that sing far down under the ground. The sound of the violin stands like a slender girl above it and is clear and alone. The voices cease and the violin continues alone. In the night it is so thin it sounds frozen; one must stand close up; it would be much better in a room—out here it makes a man grow sad.

  Because I have already had a long leave I get none on Sundays. So the last Sunday before I go back to the front my father and eldest sister come over to see me. All day we sit in the Soldiers’ Home. Where else could we go? We don’t want to stay in the camp. About midday we go for a stroll on the moors.

  The hours are a torture; we do not know what to talk about, so we speak of my mother’s illness. It is now definitely cancer, she is already in the hospital and will be operated on shortly. The doctors hope she will recover, but we have never heard of cancer being cured.

  “Where is she then?” I ask.

  “In the Luisa Hospital,” says my father.

  “In which class?”

  “Third. We must wait till we know what the operation costs. She wanted to be in the third herself. She said that then she would have some company. And besides it is cheaper.”

  “So she is lying there with all those people. If only she could sleep properly.”

  My father nods. His face is broken and full of furrows. My mother has always been sickly; and though she has only gone to the hospital when she has been compelled to, it has cost a great deal of money, and my father’s life has been practically given up to it.

  “If only I knew how much the operation costs,” says he.

  “Have you not asked?”

  “Not directly. I cannot do that—the surgeon might take it amiss and that would not do; he must operate on Mother.”

  Yes, I think bitterly, that’s how it is with us, and with all poor people. They don’t dare ask the price, but worry themselves dreadfully beforehand about it; but the others, for whom it is not important, they settle the price first as a matter of course. And the doctor does not take it amiss from them.

  “The dressings afterwards are so expensive,” says my father.

  “Doesn’t the Invalid’s Fund pay anything toward it, then?” I ask.

  “Mother has been ill too long.”

  “Have you any money at all?”

  He shakes his head: “No, but I can do some overtime.”

  I know. He will stand at his desk folding and pasting and cutting until twelve o’clock at night. At eight o’clock in the evening he will eat some miserable rubbish they get in exchange for their food tickets, then he will take a powder for his headache and work on.

  In order to cheer him up a bit I tell him a few stories, soldiers’ jokes and the like, about generals and sergeant-majors.

  Afterwards I accompany them both to the railway station. They give me a pot of jam and a bag of potato-cakes that my mother has made for me.

  Then they go off and I return to the camp.

  In the evening I spread the jam on the cakes and eat some. But I have no taste for them. So I go out to give them to the Russians. Then it occurs to me that my mother cooked them herself and that she was probably in pain as she stood before the hot stove. I put the bag back in my pack and take only two cakes to the Russians.

  WE TRAVEL FOR several days. The first aeroplanes appear in the sky. We roll on past transport lines. Guns, guns. The light railway picks us up. I search for my regiment. No one knows exactly where it lies. Somewhere or other I put up for the night, somewhere or other I receive provisions and a few vague instructions. And so with my pack and my rifle I set out again on the way.

  By the time I come up they are no longer in the devastated place. I hear we have become one of the flying divisions that are pushed in wherever it is hottest. That does not sound cheerful to me. They tell me of heavy losses that we have been having. I inquire after Kat and Albert. No one knows anything of them.

  I search farther and wander about here and there; it is a strange feeling. One night more and then another I camp out like a Red Indian. Then at last I get some definite information, and by the afternoon I am able to report to the Orderly Room.

  The sergeant-major detains m
e there. The company comes back in two days’ time. There is no object in sending me up now.

  “What was it like on leave?” he asks, “pretty good, eh?”

  “In parts,” I say.

  “Yes,” he sighs, “yes, if a man didn’t have to come away again. The second half is always rather messed up by that.”

  I loaf around until the company comes back in the early morning, grey, dirty, soured, and gloomy. Then I jump up, push in amongst them, my eyes searching. There is Tjaden, there is Müller blowing his nose, and there are Kat and Kropp. We arrange our sacks of straw side by side. I have an uneasy conscience when I look at them, and yet without any good reason. Before we turn in I bring out the rest of the potato-cakes and jam so that they can have some too.

  The outer cakes are mouldy, still it is possible to eat them. I keep those for myself and give the fresh one to Kat and Kropp.

  Kat chews and says: “These are from your mother?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” says he, “I can tell by the taste.”

  I could almost weep. I can hardly control myself any longer. But it will soon be all right again back here with Kat and Albert. This is where I belong.

  “You’ve been lucky,” whispers Kropp to me before we drop off to sleep, “they say we are going to Russia.”

  To Russia? It’s not much of a war over there.

  In the distance the front thunders. The walls of the hut rattle.

  There’s a great deal of polishing being done. We are inspected at every turn. Everything that is torn is exchanged for new. I score a spotless new tunic out of it and Kat, of course, an entire outfit. A rumour is going round that there may be peace, but the other story is more likely—that we are bound for Russia. Still, what do we need new things for in Russia? At last it leaks out—the Kaiser is coming to review us. Hence all the inspections.

  For eight whole days one would suppose we were in a basecamp, there is so much drill and fuss. Everyone is peevish and touchy, we do not take kindly to all this polishing, much less to the full-dress parades. Such things exasperate a soldier more than the front-line.

  At last the moment arrives. We stand to attention and the Kaiser appears. We are curious to see what he looks like. He stalks along the line, and I am really rather disappointed; judging from his pictures I imagined him to be bigger and more powerfully built, and above all to have a thundering voice.

  He distributes Iron Crosses, speaks to this man and that. Then we march off.

  Afterwards we discuss it. Tjaden says with astonishment:

  “So that is the All-Highest! And everyone, bar nobody, has to stand up stiff in front of him!” He meditates: “Hindenburg too, he has to stand up stiff to him, eh?”

  “Sure,” says Kat.

  Tjaden hasn’t finished yet. He thinks for a while and then asks: “And would a king have to stand up stiff to an emperor?”

  None of us is quite sure about it, but we don’t suppose so. They are both so exalted that standing strictly to attention is probably not insisted on.

  “What rot you do hatch out,” says Kat. “The main point is that you have to stand stiff yourself.”

  But Tjaden is quite fascinated. His otherwise prosy fancy is blowing bubbles. “But look,” he announces, “I simply can’t believe that an emperor has to go to the latrine the same as I have.”

  “You can bet your boots on it.”

  “Four and a half-wit make seven,” says Kat. “You’ve got a maggot in your brain, Tjaden, just you run along to the latrine quick, and get your head clear, so that you don’t talk like a two-year-old.”

  Tjaden disappears.

  “But what I would like to know,” says Albert, “is whether there would not have been a war if the Kaiser had said No.”

  “I’m sure there would,” I interject, “he was against it from the first.”

  “Well, if not him alone, then perhaps if twenty or thirty people in the world had said No.”

  “That’s probable,” I agree, “but they damned well said Yes.”

  “It’s queer, when one thinks about it,” goes on Kropp, “we are here to protect our fatherland. And the French are over there to protect their fatherland. Now who’s in the right?”

  “Perhaps both,” say I without believing it.

  “Yes, well now,” pursues Albert, and I see that he means to drive me into a corner, “but our professors and parsons and newspapers say that we are the only ones that are right, and let’s hope so;—but the French professors and parsons and newspapers say that the right is on their side, now what about that?”

  “That I don’t know,” I say, “but whichever way it is there’s war all the same and every month more countries coming in.”

  Tjaden reappears. He is still quite excited and again joins the conversation, wondering just how a war gets started.

  “Mostly by one country badly offending another,” answers Albert with a slight air of superiority.

  The Tjaden pretends to be obtuse. “A country? I don’t follow. A mountain in Germany cannot offend a mountain in France. Or a river, or a wood, or a field of wheat.”

  “Are you really as stupid as that, or are you just pulling my leg?” growls Kropp. “I don’t mean that at all. One people offends the other——”

  “Then I haven’t any business here at all,” replies Tjaden, “I don’t feel myself offended.”

  “Well, let me tell you,” says Albert sourly, “it doesn’t apply to tramps like you.”

  “Then I can be going home right away,” retorts Tjaden, and we all laugh.

  “Ach, man! he means the people as a whole, the State——” exclaims Müller.

  “State, State”—Tjaden snaps his fingers contemptuously, “Gendarmes, police, taxes, that’s your State;—if that’s what you are talking about, no, thank you.”

  “That’s right,” says Kat, “you’ve said something for once, Tjaden. State and home-country, there’s a big difference.”

  “But they go together,” insists Kropp, “without the State there wouldn’t be any home-country.”

  “True, but just you consider, almost all of us are simple folk. And in France, too, the majority of men are labourers, workmen, or poor clerks. Now just why would a French black-smith or a French shoemaker want to attack us? No, it is merely the rulers. I had never seen a Frenchman before I came here, and it will be just the same with the majority of Frenchmen as regards us. They weren’t asked about it any more than we were.”

  “Then what exactly is the war for?” asks Tjaden.

  Kat shrugs his shoulders. “There must be some people to whom the war is useful.”

  “Well, I’m not one of them,” grins Tjaden.

  “Not you, nor anybody else here.”

  “Who are they then?” persists Tjaden. “It isn’t any use to the Kaiser either. He has everything he can want already.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” contradicts Kat, “he has not had a war up till now. And every full-grown emperor requires at least one war, otherwise he would not become famous. You look in your school books.”

  “And generals too,” adds Detering, “they become famous through war.”

  “Even more famous than emperors,” adds Kat.

  “There are other people back behind there who profit by the war, that’s certain,” growls Detering.

  “I think it is more of a kind of fever,” says Albert. “No one in particular wants it, and then all at once there it is. We didn’t want the war, the others say the same thing—and yet half the world is in it all the same.”

  “But there are more lies told by the other side than by us,” say I; “just think of those pamphlets the prisoners have on them, where it says that we eat Belgian children. The fellows who write those lies ought to go out and hang themselves. They are real culprits.”

  Müller gets up. “Anyway, it is better that the war is here instead of in Germany. Just you look at the shell-holes.”

  “True,” assents Tjaden, “but no war
at all would be better still.”

  He is quite proud of himself because he has scored for once over us volunteers. And his opinion is quite typical, here one meets it time and again, and there is nothing with which one can properly counter it, because that is the limit of their comprehension of the factors involved. The national feeling of the tommy resolves itself into this—here he is. But that is the end of it; everything else he criticizes from his own practical point of view.

  Albert lies down on the grass and growls angrily: “The best thing is not to talk about the rotten business.”

  “It won’t make any difference, that’s sure,” agrees Kat.

  To make matters worse, we have to return almost all the new things and take back our old rags again. The good ones were merely for the inspection.

  Instead of going to Russia, we go up the line again. On the way we pass through a devastated wood with the tree trunks shattered and the ground ploughed up.

  At several places there are tremendous craters. “Great guns, something’s hit that,” I say to Kat.

  “Trench mortars,” he replies, and then points up at one of the trees.

  In the branches dead men are hanging. A naked soldier is squatting in the fork of a tree, he still has his helmet on, otherwise he is entirely unclad. There is only half of him sitting up there, the top half, the legs are missing.

  “What can that mean?” I ask.