It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table
there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of
poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something
of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot
comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we
came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look
back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For
us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for
Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the
"Iron Youth." All the older men are linked up with their previous
life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they
have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate
it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and
some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence
of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over
us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few
hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And
of this nothing remains.
Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it
would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away.
For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are
able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do
not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and
melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not
often sad.
* *
Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is
really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of
such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were
Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather
go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them.
But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's
circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich
will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller
not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When
Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already
on the watch.
We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are
artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good
boots are scarce.
* *
Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to
enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly
shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no
definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and
occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any
scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave
to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character.
We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more
profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a
bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At
first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we
recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not
intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became
soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything
to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer
incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more
authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and
the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young,
awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland
held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of
personality such as one would not ask of the meanest
servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting
arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a
thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be
different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though
we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We
learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the
rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions.
* *
By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst
Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made
friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under
Corporal Himmelstoss.
He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the
camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a
foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in
civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden,
Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance.
I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he
had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a
pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty
hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter
and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them;
under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a
tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the
barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would
have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally
appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But
the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For
six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly
for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to
practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the "Prepare to
advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud
and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to
Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and
bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at
attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at
a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of
our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight
times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my
shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected
three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack
all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and
trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight
with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy
wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black
and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him
blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him
down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and
told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss,
and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a
past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor
at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice,
but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us.
One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole
across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and
spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how
we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the
bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached.
"That means clink," he yelled.
But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said,
"and then we'll unload."
"Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled
Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till you're
spoken to. What will you do, anyway?"
"Show you up, Corporal," said Kropp, his thumbs in line with the
seams of his trousers.
Himmelstoss saw what we meant and went off without saying a word.
But before he disappeared he growled: "You'll drink this!"--but it
was the end of his authority. He tried it on once more in the
ploughed field with his "Prepare to advance, advance" and "Lie down."
We obeyed each order, since an order's an order and has to be obeyed.
But we did it so slowly that Himmelstoss became desperate. Carefully
we went down on our knees, then on our hands, and so on; in the
meantime, quite infuriated, he had given another command. But before
we had even begun to sweat he was hoarse. After that he left us in
peace. He did indeed always refer to us as swine, but there was,
nevertheless, a certain respect in his tone.
There were many other staff corporals, the majority of whom were more
decent. But above all each of them wanted to keep his good job there
at home as long as possible, and that he could do only by being
strict with the recruits.
Practically every conceivable polishing job in the entire camp fell
to us and we often howled with rage. Many of us became ill through
it; Wolf actually died of inflammation of the lung. But we would
have felt ridiculous had we hauled down our colours. We became hard,
suspicious, pitiless, vicious, tough--and that was good; for these
attributes had been entirely lacking in us. Had we gone into the
trenches without this period of training most of us would certainly
have gone mad. Only thus were we prepared for what awaited us. We
did not break down, but endured; our twenty years, which made many
another thing so grievous, helped us in this. But by far the most
important was that it awakened in us a strong, practical sense of
_esprit de corps_, which in the field developed into the finest thing
that arose out of the war--comradeship.
* *
I sit by Kemmerich's bed. He is sinking steadily. Around us is a
great commotion. A hospital train has arrived and the wounded fit to
be moved are being selected. The doctor passes by Kemmerich's bed
without once looking at him.
"Next time, Franz," I say.
He raises himself on the pillow with his elbows. "They have
amputated my leg."
He knows it too then. I nod and answer: "You must be thankful you've
come off with that."
He is silent.
I resume: "It might have been both legs, Franz. Wegeler has lost his
right arm. That's much worse. Besides, you will be going home." He
looks at me. "Do you think so?"
"Of course."
"Do you think so?" he repeats.
"Sure, Franz. Once you've got over the operation."
He beckons me to bend down. I stoop over him and he whispers: "I
don't think so."
"Don't talk rubbish, Franz, in a couple of days you'll see for
yourself. What is it anyway--an amputated leg? here they patch up
far worse things than that."
He lifts one hand. "Look here though, these fingers."
"That's the result of the operation. Just eat decently and you'll
soon be well again. Do they look after you properly?"
He points to a dish that is still half full. I get excited. "Franz,
you must eat. Eating is the main thing. That looks good too."
He turns away. After a pause he says slowly: "I wanted to become a
head-forester once."
"So you may still," I assure him. "There are splendid artificial
limbs now, you'd hardly know there was anything missing. They are
fixed on to the muscles. You can move the fingers and work and even
write with an artificial hand. And besides, they will always be
making new improvements."
For a while he lies still. Then he says: "You can take my lace-up
boots with you for Müller."
I nod and wonder what to say to encourage him. His lips have fallen
away, his mouth has become larger, his teeth stick out and look as
though they were made of chalk. The flesh melts, the forehead bulges
more prominently, the cheek-bones protrude. The skeleton is working
itself through. The eyes are already sunken in. In a couple of
hours it will be over.
He is not the first that I have seen thus; but we grew up together
and that always makes it a bit different. I have copied his essays.
At school he used to wear a brown coat with a belt and shiny sleeves.
He was the only one of us, too, who could do the giant's turn on the
horizontal bar. His hair flew in his face like silk when he did it.
Kantorek was proud of him for it. But he couldn't endure cigarettes.
His skin was very white; he had something of the girl about him.
I glance at my boots. They are big and clumsy, the breeches are
tucked into them, and standing up one looks well-built and powerful
in these great drain-pipes. But when we go bathing and strip,
suddenly we have slender legs again and slight shoulders. We are no
longer soldiers but little more than boys; no one would believe that
we could carry packs. It is a strange moment when we stand naked;
then we become civilians, and almost feel ourselves to be so. When
bathing Franz Kemmerich looked as slight and frail as a child. There
he lies now--but why? The whole world ought to pass by this bed and
say: "That is Franz Kemmerich, nineteen and a half years old, he
doesn't want to die. Let him not die!"
My thoughts become confused. This atmosphere of carbolic and
gangrene clogs the lungs, it is a thick gruel, it suffocates.
It grows dark. Kemmerich's face changes colour, it lifts from the
pillow and is so pale that it gleams. The mouth moves slightly. I
draw near to him. He whispers: "If you find my watch, send it
home----"
I do not reply. It is no use any more. No one can console him. I
am wretched with helplessness. This forehead with its hollow
temples, this mouth that is now merely a slit, this sharp nose! And
the fat, weeping woman at home to whom I must write. If only the
letter were sent off already!
Hospital-orderlies go to and fro with bottles and pails. One of them
comes up, casts a glance at Kemmerich and goes away again. You can
see he is waiting, apparently he wants the bed.
I bend over Franz and talk to him as though that could save him:
"Perhaps you will go to the convalescent home at Klosterberg, among
the villas, Franz. Then you can look out from the window across the
fields to the two trees on the horizon. It is the loveliest time of
the year now, when the corn ripens; at evening the fields in the
sunlight look like mother-of-pearl. And the lane of poplars by the
Klosterbach, where we used to catch sticklebacks! You can build an
aquarium again and keep fish in it, and you can go out without asking
anyone, you can even play the piano if you want to."
I lean down over his face which lies in the shadow. He still
breathes, lightly. His face is wet, he is crying. What a fine mess
I have made of it with my foolish talk!
"But Franz"--I put my arm round his shoulder and put my face against
his. "Will you sleep now?"
He does not answer. The tears run down his cheeks. I would like to
wipe them away but my handkerchief is too dirty.
An hour passes. I sit tensely and watch his every movement in case
he may perhaps say something. What if he were to open his mouth and
cry out! But he only weeps, his head turned aside. He does not
speak of his mother or his brothers and sisters. He says nothing;
all that lies behind him; he is entirely alone now with his little
life of nineteen years, and cries because it leaves him. This is the
most disturbing and hardest parting that ever I have seen, although
it was pretty bad too with Tiedjen, who called for his mother--a big
bear of a fellow who, with wild eyes full of terror, held off the
doctor from his bed with a dagger until he collapsed.
Suddenly Kemmerich groans and begins to gurgle.
I jump up, stumble outside and demand:
"Where is the doctor? Where is the doctor?"
As I catch sight of the white apron I seize hold of it: "Come quick,
Franz Kemmerich is dying."
He frees himself and asks an orderly standing by: "Which will that
be?"
He says: "Bed 26, amputated thigh."
He sniffs: "How should I know anything about it, I've amputated five
legs to-day"; he shoves me away, says to the hospital-orderly "You
see to it," and runs off to the operating room.
I tremble with rage as I go along with the orderly. The man looks at
me and says: "One operation after another since five o'clock this
morning. You know to-day alone there have been sixteen deaths--yours
is the seventeenth. There will probably be twenty altogether----"
I become faint, all at once I cannot do any more. I won't revile any
more, it is senseless, I could drop down and never rise up again.
We are by Kemmerich's bed. He is dead. The face is still wet from
the tears. The eyes are half open and yellow like old horn buttons.
The orderly pokes me in the ribs. "Are you taking his things with
you?" I nod.
He goes on: "We must take him away at once, we want the bed. Outside
they are lying on the floor."
I collect the things, untie Kemmerich's identification disc and take
it away. The orderly asks about the pay-book, I say that it is
probably in the orderly-room, and go. Behind me they are already
hauling Franz on to a water-proof sheet.
Outside the door I am aware of the darkness and the wind as a
deliverance. I breathe as deep as I can, and feel the breeze in my
face, warm and soft as never before. Thoughts of girls, of flowery
meadows, of white clouds suddenly come into my head. My feet begin to
move forward in my boots, I go quicker, I run. Soldiers pass by me, I
hear their voices without understanding. The earth is streaming with
forces which pour into me through the soles of my feet. The night
crackles electrically, the front thunders like a concert of drums. My
limbs move supplely, I feel my joints strong, I breathe the air deeply.
The night lives, I live. I feel a hunger, greater than comes from the
belly alone.
Müller stands in front of the hut and waits for me. I give him the
boots. We go in and he tries them on. They fit well.
He roots among his supplies and offers me a fine piece of saveloy.
With it goes hot tea and rum.