Many of my mates envied the dead soldiers and wished to be in their
place in order to be at least through with all their misery. Yet all of
us were afraid of dying--afraid of dying, be it noted, not of death.
All of us often longed for death, but we were horrified at the slow
dying lasting hours which is the rule on the battlefield, that process
which makes the wounded, abandoned soldier die piecemeal. I have
witnessed the death of hundreds of young men in their prime, but I know
of none among them who died willingly. A young sapper of the name of
Kellner, whose home was at Cologne, had his whole abdomen ripped open
by a shell splinter. Maddened by pain he begged me to assure him that
he would not have to die. Of course, I assured him that his wounds were
by no means severe and that the doctor would be there immediately to
help him. My words comforted him. He died ten minutes later....
We common soldiers were here handling the dead and wounded as if we had
never done anything else, and yet in our civilian lives most of us had
an abhorrence and fear of the dead and the horribly mangled. War is a
hard schoolmaster who bends and reshapes his pupils.
One section was busy with digging a common grave for the dead. We took
away the papers and valuables of the dead, took possession of the
eatable and drinkable stores to be found in the saddle bags attached
to the horses and, when the grave was ready, we began to place the
dead bodies in it. They were laid close together in order to utilize
fully the available space. I, too, had been ordered to "bring in"
the dead. The bottom of the grave was large enough for twenty-three
bodies if the space was well utilized. When two layers of twenty-three
had already been buried a sergeant of the artillery, who was standing
near, observed that one of the "dead" was still alive. He had seen the
"corpse" move the fingers of his right hand. On closer examination it
turned out that we came near burying a living man, for after an attempt
lasting two hours we succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. The
officer of the infantry who supervised the work now turned to the two
soldiers charged with getting the corpses ready and asked them whether
they were sure that all the men buried were really dead.
"Yes," the two replied, "we suppose they are all dead." That seemed
to be quite sufficient for that humane officer, for he ordered the
interments to proceed. Nobody doubted that there were several more
among the 138 men whom we alone buried in one grave (two other, still
bigger, graves had been dug by different burial parties) from whose
bodies life had not entirely flown....
We were as merry as boys and as noisy as street urchins. "Oh, what a
joy to be a soldier lad!"--that song rang out, subdued at first, then
louder and louder. It died away quickly enough as one after the other
laid down his tired head. We slept like the dead.
A soldier in war never knows the date or day of the week. One day is
like another. Whether it is Saturday, Thursday or Sunday, it means
always the same routine of murdering. "Remember the Sabbath day to
keep it holy!" "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work. But
the seventh day--thou shalt not do any work." These, to our Christian
rulers, are empty phrases. "Six days shalt thou murder and on the
seventh day, too."