We keep our eyes wide open, and test the ground with our feet and with the bars before we put our weight down. The column stops suddenly; you bang your face into the barbed-wire roll that the man in front is carrying, and you swear.
A couple of shot-up trucks[95] are in the way. A new order comes: Pipes and cigarettes out! We are close to the frontline trenches.
In the meantime it has gone completely dark. We skirt around a little copse and our sector is there before us.
There is an indistinct reddish glow from one end of the horizon to the other. It changes constantly, punctuated by flashes from the gun batteries. Verey lights[96] go up high above it, silver and red balls which burst with a shower of white, red and green stars. French rockets shoot up, the ones with silk parachutes that open in the air and let them drift down really slowly. They light up everything as clear as day, and their brightness even reaches across to us, so that we can see our shadows stark against the ground. The lights hang in the sky for minutes at a time before they burn out. New ones shoot up at once, everywhere, and there are still the green, red and blue stars.
Going to be a bad do[97], says Kat.
The thunder of the guns gets stronger until it becomes a single dull roar, and then it breaks down again into individual bursts. The dry voiced machine-guns rattle. Above our heads the air is full of invisible menace, howling, whistling and hissing. This is from the smaller guns; but every so often comes the deep sound of the big crump shells, the really heavy stuff, moving through the dark and landing far behind us. They make a bellowing, throaty, distant noise, like a rutting stag, and they go far above the howl and the whistle of the small shells.
Searchlights begin to sweep the black sky. They skim across it like huge blackboard pointers[98], tapering down at the bottom. One of them pauses, shaking a little. At once another is beside it, they cross and there is a black, winged insect trapped and trying to escape: an airman. He wavers, is dazzled and falls.
We ram the iron posts in firmly at set intervals. There are always two men holding the roll while the others pay out the barbed-wire. It is that horrible wire with a lot of long spikes, close together. I am out of practice at paying it out, and rip my hand open.
After a few hours we have finished. But there is still some time before the trucks are due. Most of us lie down and sleep. I try to as well, but it is too cold. You can tell that we are not far from the sea, because you are always waking up from the cold.
At one point I do fall into a deep sleep. When I wake up suddenly with a jolt, I have no idea where I am. I see the stars and I see the rockets, and just for a moment I imagine that I have fallen asleep in the garden at home, during a fireworks party of some sort. I dont know whether it is morning or evening, and I lie there in the pale cradle of dawn waiting for the gentle words which must surely come, gentle and comforting am I crying? I put my hand to my face; it is baffling, am I a child? Smooth skin it only lasts for a second and then I recognize the silhouette of Katczinsky. He is sitting there quite calmly, old soldier that he is, smoking his pipe one of those with a fid over the bowl, of course. When he sees that I am awake he says, That made you jump. It was only a detonator, it whizzed off into the bushes over there.
I sit up; I feel terribly alone. It is good that Kat is there. He looks thoughtfully at the front and says, Lovely fireworks. If only they werent so dangerous.
A shell lands behind us. A couple of the new recruits jump up in fright. A few minutes later another shell comes over, closer than before. Kat knocks out his pipe. Here we go.
It has started. We crawl away as fast as we can. The next shell lands amongst us.
Some of the men scream. Green rockets go up over the horizon. Dirt flies up. Shrapnel buzzes. You can hear it landing when the noise of the blast has long gone.
Close by us there is a recruit, a blond lad, and he is terrified. He has pressed his face into his hands. His helmet has rolled off. I reach for it and try to put it on to his head. He looks up, pushes the helmet away and huddles in under my arm like a child, his head against my chest. His narrow shoulders are shaking, shoulders just like Kemmerich had.
I let him stay there. But to get some use out of his helmet I shove it over his backside, not as some kind of a joke, but deliberately, because its the most exposed area. Even though the flesh is solid, a wound there can be bloody painful, and besides, you have to be on your stomach for months in a military hospital, and afterwards you are pretty certain to have a limp.
Theres been a direct hit somewhere not far off. Between the impacts you can hear screaming.
At last it calms down. The shellfire has swept over us and moved on to the back line of reserve trenches. We risk a look out. Red rockets are shimmering in the sky. Probably there will be an attack.
It stays quiet where we are. I sit up and shake the recruit by the shoulder. Its all over, old son. We got through again.
He looks around in bewilderment. Youll get used to it, I tell him.
He notices his helmet and puts it on his head. Slowly he comes to himself. Then suddenly he blushes scarlet and his face has a look of embarrassment. Cautiously he puts his hand to his rear end[99] and gives me an agonized look. I understand at once: the barrage scared the shit out of him. That wasnt the precise reason that I put his helmet where I did but all the same I comfort him. No shame in that, plenty of soldiers before you have filled their pants when they came under fire for the first time. Go behind that bush, chuck your underpants away, and thats that
He clears off. It gets quieter, but the screaming doesnt stop. Whats up, Albert? I ask.
A couple of the columns over there got direct hits.
The screaming goes on and on. It cant be men, they couldnt scream that horribly.
Wounded horses, says Kat.
I have never heard a horse scream and I can hardly believe it. There is a whole world of pain in that sound, creation itself under torture, a wild and horrifying agony. We go pale. Detering sits up. Bastards, bastards! For Christs sake shoot them!
He is a farmer and used to handling horses. It really gets to him.
And as if on purpose the firing dies away almost completely. The screams of the animals become that much clearer. You cant tell where it is coming from any more in that quiet, silver landscape, it is invisible, ghostly, it is everywhere, between the earth and the heavens, and it swells out immeasurably. Detering is going crazy and roars out, Shoot them, for Christs sake, shoot them!
Theyve got to get the wounded men out first, says Kat.
We stand up and try to see where they are. If we can actually see the animals, it will be easier to cope with. Meyer has some field glasses[100] with him. We can make out a dark group of orderlies with stretchers, and then some bigger things, black mounds that are moving. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop off a little way, collapse, and then run on again. The belly of one of the horses has been ripped open and its guts are trading out. It gets its feet caught up in them and falls, but it gets to its feet again.
Detering raises his rifle and takes aim. Kat knocks the barrel upwards. Are you crazy?
Detering shudders and throws his gun on to the ground.
We sit down and press our hands over our ears. But the terrible crying and groaning and howling still gets through, it penetrates everything.
We can all stand a lot, but this brings us out in a cold sweat. You want to get up and run away, anywhere just so as not to hear that screaming any more. And it isnt men, just horses.
Some more stretchers are moved away from the dark mass. Then a few shots ring out. The big shapes twitch a little and then become less prominent. At last! But it isnt over yet. No one can catch the wounded animals who have bolted in terror, their wide-open mouths filled with all that pain. One of the figures goes down on one knee, a shot one horse collapses and then there is another. The last horse supports itself on its forelegs, and moves in a circle like a carousel, turning around in a sitting position with its forelegs stiff probably its back is broken. The soldier runs across and shoots it down. Slowly, humbly, it sinks to the ground.
We take our hands away from our ears. The screaming has stopped. Just a long-drawn-out, dying sigh is still there in the air. Then, just like before, there are only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars and it feels almost eerie.
Detering walks about cursing. What have they done to deserve that, thats what I want to know? And later on he comes back to it again. His voice is agitated and he sounds as if he is making a speech when he says, I tell you this: it is the most despicable thing of all to drag animals into a war.
We go back. Its time to head for the trucks. The sky has become just a trace lighter. Three a.m. The wind is fresh and cool and at that livid hour our faces look grey.
We move slowly forwards in Indian file[101] through the trenches and shell holes and at last we reach the foggy area once again. Katczinsky is uneasy, and that is a bad sign.
Whats the matter, Kat? asks Kropp.
I just wish we were home. Home he means back in camp. Wont be long now, Kat.
He is nervous. I dont know, I dont know
We get to the communication trenches and then back to the meadows. The little wood is in front of us; we know every inch of ground here. We can already see the graves of the rifle brigade, with the mounds of earth still piled up, and the black crosses.
At that very moment we hear a whistling noise behind us, it gets louder, there is a crash and then a roar. Weve ducked down a hundred yards in front of us a wall of flame shoots up.
The next moment part of the wood is lifted up above the tree tops when the second shell hits, three or four trees go up with it and are smashed into pieces in the process. The follow-up shells are already hissing down with a sound like a safety valve[102] heavy fire Take cover! somebody shouts, Take cover!