# All Quiet on the Western Front/Chapter 2

​CHAPTER II
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 dis​pleased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the horizontal 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, ad​vance” 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. 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 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 parallel bars. 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 shoulders 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 dis​turbing 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 waterproof 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.