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| Erich Maria Remarque
Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades – words, words, words, but they hold the horror of the world. Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay/and the war would be over and done in a day. I will come back again! I will come back again! Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days; – when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without. Roads stretch far through the landscape, the villages lie in a grey light; trees rustle, leaves are falling, falling. The leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs. The war has ruined us for everything. There is a distance, a veil between us. To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. Trenches, hospitals, the common grave – there are no other possibilities. We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important to us. and good boots are hard to come by. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. If a shot comes, we can duck, that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall. What is still left of Number 2 Platoon is quartered in a stretch of battered trench behind the line, and most of them are dozing. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth! Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? That is long ago. We are old folk. You take it from me, we are losing the war because we can salute too well. |
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