All Quiet on the Western Front

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “Quick, up, Albert!” I yell, for we are lying unsheltered in the open field.

  He staggers up and runs. I keep beside him. We have to get over a hedge; it is higher than we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one bound I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge.

  Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted.

  “Let’s get away, or I’ll fall in and drown,” groans Albert.

  “Where has it got you?” I ask him.

  “In the knee I think.”

  “Can you run?”

  “I think——”

  “Then out!”

  We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads towards the munition dump. If that goes up there won’t be so much as a boot-lace left of us. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country.

  Albert begins to drag. “You go, I’ll come on after,” he says, and throws himself down.

  I seize him by the arm and shake him. “Up, Albert, if once you lie down you’ll never get any farther. Quick, I’ll hold you up.”

  At last we reach a small dug-out. Kropp pitches in and I bandage him up. The shot is just a little above his knee. Then I take a look at myself. My trousers are bloody and my arm, too. Albert binds up my wound with his field dressing. Already he is no longer able to move his leg, and we both wonder how we managed to get this far. Fear alone made it possible; we should have run even if our feet had been shot off;—we would have run on the stumps.

  I can still crawl a little. I call out to a passing ambulance wagon which picks us up. It is full of wounded. There is an army medical lance-corporal with it who sticks an anti-tetanus needle into our chests.

  At the dressing station we arrange matters so that we lie side by side. They give us a thin soup which we spoon down greedily and scornfully, because we are accustomed to better times but are hungry all the same.

  “Now for home, Albert,” I say.

  “Let’s hope so,” he replies, “I only wish I knew what I’ve got.”

  The pain increases. The bandages burn like fire. We drink and drink, one glass of water after another.

  “How far above the knee am I hit?” asks Kropp.

  “At least four inches, Albert,” I answer. Actually it is perhaps one.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” he says after a while, “if they take off my leg, I’ll put an end to it. I won’t go through life as a cripple.”

  So we lie there with our thoughts and wait.

  In the evening we are hauled on to the chopping-block. I am frightened and think quickly what I ought to do; for everyone knows that the surgeons in the dressing stations amputate on the slightest provocation. Under the great business that is much simpler than complicated patching. I think of Kemmerich. Whatever happens I will not let them chloroform me, even if I have to crack a couple of their skulls.

  It is all right. The surgeon pokes around in the wound and a blackness comes before my eyes. “Don’t carry on so,” he says gruffly, and hacks away. The instruments gleam in the bright light like marvelous animals. The pain is insufferable. Two orderlies hold my arms fast, but I break loose with one of them and try to crash into the surgeon’s spectacles just as he notices and springs back. “Chloroform the scoundrel,” he roars madly.

  Then I become quiet. “Pardon me, Herr Doctor, I will keep still but do not chloroform me.”

  “Well now,” he cackles and takes up his instrument again. He is a fair fellow, not more than thirty years old, with scars and disgusting gold spectacles. Now I see that he is tormenting me, he is merely raking about in the wound and looking up surreptitiously at me over his glasses. My hands squeeze around the grips, I’ll kick the bucket before he will get a squeak out of me.

  He has fished out a piece of shell and tosses it to me. Apparently he is pleased at my self-control, for he now sets my leg carefully in splints and says: “To-morrow you’ll be off home.” Then I am put in plaster. When I am back again with Kropp I tell him apparently a hospital train comes in tomorrow morning.

  “We must work the army medical sergeant-major so that we can keep together, Albert.”

  I manage to slip the sergeant-major two of my cigars with belly-bands, and then tip the word to him. He smells the cigars and says: “Have you got any more of them?”

  “Another good handful,” I say, “and my comrade,” I point to Kropp, “he has some as well. We might possibly be glad to hand them to you out of the window of the hospital train in the morning.”

  He understands, of course, smells them once again and says: “Done.”

  We cannot get a minute’s sleep all night. One of them sings hymns in a high cracked tenor before he begins to gurgle. Another has crept out of his bed to the window. He lies in front of it as though he wants to look out for the last time.

  ————

  Our stretchers stand on the platform. We wait for the train. It rains and the station has no roof. Our blankets are thin. We have waited already two hours.

  The sergeant-major looks after us like a mother. Although I feel pretty bad I do not let our scheme out of my mind. Casually I let him see the packet and give him one cigar in advance. In exchange the sergeant-major covers us over with a waterproof sheet.

  “Albert, old man,” I suddenly bethink myself, “our four-poster and the cat——”

  “And the club chairs,” he adds.

  Yes, the club chairs with red plush. In the evening we used to sit in them like lords, and intended later on to let them out by the hour. One cigarette per hour. It might have turned into a regular business, a real good living.

  “And our bags of grub, too, Albert.”

  We grow melancholy. We might have made some use of the things. If only the train left one day later Kat would be sure to find us and bring us the stuff.

  What damned hard luck! In our bellies there is gruel, mean hospital stuff, and in our bags roast pork. But we are so weak that we cannot work up any more excitement about it.

  The stretchers are sopping wet by the time the train arrives in the morning. The sergeant-major sees to it that we are put in the same car. There is a crowd of red-cross nurses. Kropp is stowed in below. I am lifted up and told to get into the bed above him.

  “Good God!” I exclaim suddenly.

  “What is it?” asks the sister.

  I cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has got the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy.

  “Can’t you get in by yourself?” asks the sister gently.

  “Why yes,” I say in a sweat, “but take off the bed cover first.”

  “What for?”

  I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?—“It will get——” I hesitate.

  “A little bit dirty?” she suggests helpfully. “That doesn’t matter, we will wash it again afterwards.”

  “No, no, not that——” I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement.

  “When you have been lying out there in the trenches, surely we can wash a sheet,” she goes on.

  I look at her, she is young and crisp, spotless and neat, like everything here; a man cannot realize that it isn’t for officers only, and feels himself strange and in some way even alarmed.

  All the same the woman is a tormentor, she is going to force me to say it. “It is only——” I try again, surely she must know what I mean.

  “What is it then?”

  “Because of the lice,” I bawl out at last.

  She laughs. “Well, they must have a good day for once, too.”

  Now I don’t care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers.

  A hand gropes over the bed-cover.
The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars.

  An hour later we notice we are moving.

  ————

  I wake up during the night. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. “Albert!” I whisper.

  “Yes——”

  “Do you know where the latrine is?”

  “The door is on the right, I think.”

  “I’m going to have a look.” It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor.

  “Damn!” I say.

  “Have you bumped yourself?” asks Kropp.

  “You could hear that well enough for yourself,” I growl, “my head——”

  A door opens at the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me.

  “He has fallen out of bed——”

  She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. “You haven’t any fever, though.”

  “No,” I agree.

  “Have you been dreaming then?” she asks.

  “Perhaps——” I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want.

  I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can’t be done, I cannot possibly tell her.

  Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. “Sister, he wants——” but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady——All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: “He wants to leave the room, sister.”

  “Ah!” says the sister, “but he shouldn’t climb out of his bed with plaster bandage. What do you want then?” she says turning to me.

  I am in mortal terror at this turn, for I haven’t any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help.

  “Little or big?”

  Shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: “Well, only quite a little one——”

  At any rate it produces the effect.

  I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty.

  The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often.

  Albert is feverish. I don’t feel too bad; I have some pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself.

  We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbesthal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. “How far does the train go?” I ask.

  “To Cologne.”

  “Albert,” I say “we stick together; you see.”

  On the sister’s next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes,” I groan, “all of a sudden.”

  She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat’s tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays without falling again.

  I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°.

  As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: “I can’t bear it any longer——”

  She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be reopened if it can be avoided.

  Albert and I are put off together.

  We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bed cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out full length like that;—the only time it is good is when one is asleep.

  The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The doors stand open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: “Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open.”

  No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our heads and bones.

  “Such an absurdity!” I say, “just when a man dropped off to sleep.”

  “All the light cases are up here, that’s why they do it here,” he replies.

  Albert groans. I get furious and call out: “Be quiet out there!”

  A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful teacosy. “Shut the door, will you, sister?” says someone.

  “We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open,” she responds.

  “But we want to go on sleeping——”

  “Prayer is better than sleeping,” she stands there and smiles innocently. “And it is seven o’clock already.”

  Albert groans again. “Shut the door,” I snort.

  She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. “But we are saying prayers for you too.”

  “Shut the door, anyway.”

  She disappears, leaving the door open. The intoning of the litany proceeds.

  I feel savage, and say: “I’m going to count up to three. If it doesn’t stop before then I’ll let something fly.”

  “Me too,” says another.

  I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert.

  “Shut the door!” we yell.

  They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. “Heathen,” she chirps but shuts the door all the same. We have won.

  At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long sword and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What could they do to us anyway——

  “Who threw the bottle?” he asks.

  Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: “I did.”

  A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself?

  “You?”

  “Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing.”

  He talks like a book.

  “What is your name?”

  “Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher.”

  The inspector departs.

  We are all curious. “But why did you say you did it? It wasn’t you at all.”

  He grins. “That doesn’t matter. I have a shooting license.”

  Then of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting license can do just whatever he pleases.

  “Yes,” he explains. “I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a ce
rtificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I’ve had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me.

  “I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another.”

  We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything.

  Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away.

  The bandages are stuck fast. We bellow like steers.

  There are eight men in our room. Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;—a severe lung wound. Franz Wächter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn’t look too bad at first. But the third night he calls out to us, telling us to ring, he thinks he has a haemorrhage.

  I ring loudly. The night sister does not come. We have been making rather heavy demands on her during the night, because we have all been freshly bandaged, and so have a good deal of pain. One wants his leg placed so, another so, a third wants water, a fourth wants her to shake his pillow;—in the end the buxom old body grumbled bad-temperedly and slammed the doors. Now no doubt she thinks it is something of the same sort and so she is not coming.

  We wait. Then Franz says: “Ring again.”

  I do so. Still she does not put in an appearance. In our wing there is only one night sister, perhaps she has something to do in one of the other rooms. “Franz, are you quite sure you are bleeding?” I ask. “Otherwise we shall be getting cursed again.”

  “The bandage is wet. Can’t anybody make a light?”

  That cannot be done either. The switch is by the door and none of us can stand up. I hold my thumb against the button of the bell till it becomes numb. Perhaps the sister has fallen asleep. They certainly have a great deal to do and are all overworked day after day. And added to that is the everlasting praying.

  “Should we smash a bottle?” asks Josef Hamacher of the shooting license.