I tell myself firmly that I am getting worked up for nothing, that there is probably no one watching for me in the dark because if there were they wouldnt be firing so low.
Its no use. Thoughts buzz round in my head in complete confusion I hear my mothers warning voice, I see the Russians leaning against the wire-netting, with their beards blowing in the wind, I get a bright and wonderful picture of a canteen with comfortable chairs, then of a cinema in Valenciennes[231], and then, horrible in my tortured imagination, of a gun barrel, grey and unfeeling, following me around silently wherever I try to turn my head: sweat is breaking out from every pore.
I am still lying in the hollow I found. I look at my watch; only a few minutes have passed. My forehead is wet, there is dampness all round my eyes, my hands are shaking and Im coughing quietly. Its nothing more than a bad attack of fear, of common-or-garden cold terror at the prospect of sticking my head out and crawling on.
All my tense readiness melts into the desire to stay lying down. My limbs are glued to the ground, I try to move, but I cant they just wont come away from it. I press myself into the earth, I cannot move forwards, and I decide to stay where I am.
But right away a new wave comes over me, a wave of shame, of regret, and yet still one of self-preservation. I lift myself up slightly to have a look around. My eyes are stinging and I stare into the darkness. Then a Verey light goes up and I duck down again.
I am fighting a crazy, confused battle. I want to get out of my hollow in the ground and I keep on slipping back in; I say to myself, Youve got to, its to do with your mates, not some stupid order, and straight after that: So what? Ive only got the one life to lose.
Its all because of that leave, I tell myself bitterly by way of an excuse. But I dont believe it myself, I just feel horribly drained. I raise myself up slowly and stretch out my arms, then raise my back and prop myself half on the edge of the shell hole.
Then I hear sounds and get down again. In spite of the thunder of the guns you can pick out suspicious noises completely clearly. I listen the sound is coming from behind me. It is our soldiers moving through the trench. Now I can even hear muted voices. From the sound of it, it might even be Kat speaking.
Suddenly a surprising warmth comes over me. Those voices, those few soft words, those footsteps in the trench behind me tear me with a jolt away from the terrible feeling of isolation that goes with the fear of death, to which I nearly succumbed. Those voices mean more than my life, more than mothering and fear, they are the strongest and most protective thing that there is: they are the voices of my pals.
Im no longer a shivering scrap of humanity alone in the dark I belong to them and they to me, we all share the same fear and the same life, and we are bound to each other in a strong and simple way. I want to press my face into them, those voices, those few words that saved me, and which will be my support.
I slip warily over the edge, and snake forwards. I creep along on all fours; things are going well, I fix the direction, look about me and take note of the pattern of artillery fire so that I can find my way back. Then I try to make contact with the others.
I am still afraid, but now it is a rational fear, which is just an extraordinarily enhanced cautiousness. It is a windy night, and the shadows move back and forth in the sudden flashes from the gunfire. By this light you can see too much and too little. Often I freeze suddenly, but there is never anything there. In this way I get quite a long distance forward, and then turn back in a curve. I havent made contact. Every few feet closer to our trench makes me more confident, but I still move as fast as I can. It wouldnt be too good to stop one just at this moment.
And then I get another shock. Im no longer able to make out the exact direction. Silently I crouch in a shell hole and try and get my bearings. It has happened more than once that a man has jumped cheerfully into a trench, and only then found out that it was the wrong side.
After a while I listen again. I still havent sorted out where I am. The wilderness of shell holes seems so confusing that in my agitated state I no longer have any idea which way to go. Maybe I am crawling parallel with the trenches, and I could go on for ever doing that. So I make another turn.
These damned Verey lights! It feels as if they last for an hour, and you cant make a move, or things soon start whistling round you.
Its no use, Ive got to get out. By fits[232] and starts I walk my way along. I crawl crabwise across the ground and tear my hands to pieces on ragged bits of shrapnel as sharp as razor-blades. Often I get the impression that the sky is becoming lighter on the horizon, but that could just be my imagination. Gradually I realize that I am crawling for my life.
A shell hits. Then straight away two more. And then it really starts. A barrage. Machine-guns chatter. Now there is nothing in the world that I can do except he low. It seems to be an offensive. Light-rockets go up everywhere. Incessantly.
Im lying bent double in a big shell hole in water up to my waist. When the offensive starts Ill drop into the water as far as I can without drowning and put my face in the mud. Ill have to play dead.
Suddenly I hear their shellfire give way. Straight away I slip down into the water at the bottom of the shell hole, my helmet right on the back of my neck and my mouth only sufficiently above water to let me breathe.
Then I remain motionless because somewhere there is a clinking noise, something is coming closer, moving along and stamping; every nerve in my body tenses up and freezes. The clinking noise moves on over me, the first wave of soldiers is past. All that I had in my head was the one explosive thought: what will you do if someone jumps into your shell hole? Now I quickly pull out my small dagger, grip it tight and hide it by keeping my hand downwards in the mud. The idea keeps pounding in my brain that if anyone jumps in Ill stab him immediately, stick the knife into his throat at once, so that he cant shout out, theres no other way, hell be as frightened as I am, and well attack each other purely out of fear, so I have to get there first.
Now our gun batteries are firing. There is an impact near me. That makes me furiously angry, thats all I need, to be hit by our own gunfire; I curse into the mud and grind my teeth, its an outburst of rage, and in the end all I can do is groan and plead.
The crash of shells pounds against my ears. If our men launch a counter-offensive[233], Im free. I press my head against the earth and I can hear the dull thunder like distant explosions in a mine then I lift my head to listen to the noises above me.
The machine-guns are rattling away. I know that our barbed-wire entanglements are firm and pretty well undamaged; sections of them are electrified. The gunfire increases. They arent getting through. Theyll have to turn back.
I collapse into the shell hole again, tense almost to breaking point. Clattering, crawling, clinking it all becomes audible, a single scream ringing out in the midst of it all. Theyre coming under fire, the attack has been held off.
Its got a little bit lighter. Footsteps hurry by me. The first few. Past me. Then some more. The rattle of the machine-guns becomes continuous. I am just about to turn round a bit when suddenly there is a noise and a body falls on to me in the shell hole, heavily and with a splash, then slips and lands on top of me
I dont think at all, I make no decision I just stab wildly and feel only how the body jerks, then goes limp and collapses. When I come to myself again, my hand is sticky and wet.
The other man makes a gurgling noise. To me it sounds as if he is roaring, every breath is like a scream, like thunder but it is only the blood in my own veins that is pounding so hard. Id like to stop his mouth, to stuff earth into it, to stab again he has to be quiet or hell give me away; but I am so much myself again and suddenly feel so weak that I cant raise my hand against him any more.
So I crawl away into the furthest corner and stay there, my eyes fixed on him, gripping my knife, ready to go for him again if he moves but he wont do anything again. I can hear that just from his gurgling.
I can only see him indistinctly. I have the one single desire to get away. If I dont do so quickly it will be too fight; its already difficult. But the moment I try to raise my head I become aware that it is impossible. The machine-gun fire is so dense that I would be full of holes before I had gone a step.
I have another go, lifting up my helmet and pushing it forwards to gauge the height of fire. A moment later a bullet knocks it out of my hand. The gunfire is sweeping the ground at a very low level. I am not far enough away from the enemy trenches to escape being hit by one of the snipers the moment I tried to make a break for it.
It gets lighter and lighter. I wait desperately for an attack by our men. My knuckles are white because I am tensing my hands, praying for the firing to die down and for my mates to come.
The minutes trickle past one by one. I darent look at the dark figure in the shell hole any more. With great effort I look past him, and wait, just wait. The bullets hiss, they are a mesh of steel, it wont stop, it wont stop.
Then I see my bloodied hand and suddenly I feel sick. I take some earth and rub it on to the skin, now at least my hand is dirty and you cant see the blood any more.
The gunfire still doesnt die down. Its just as strong now from both sides. Our lot have probably long since given me up for lost.
It is a light, grey, early morning. The gurgling still continues. I block my ears, but I quickly have to take my hands away from them because otherwise I wont be able to hear anything else.
The figure opposite me moves. That startles me, and I look across at him, although I dont want to. Now my eyes are riveted on him. A man with a little moustache is lying there, his head hanging lopsidedly, one arm half crooked and the head against it. The other hand is clasped to his chest. It has blood on it.