All Quiet on the Western Front, Chapter 4

All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erick Maria Remarque
Chapter 4

In this chapter, the narrator describes what it is like to be up at the front and under attack. We learn about how the soldiers who have been at war a long time must take care of new recruits, and how the technology of war has created a style of warfare never seen before. 

We have to go up on wiring fatigue. The motor lorries roll up after dark. We climb in. It is a warm
evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together. Even
the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light.

We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not
expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots.


The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare
not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us,
however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man
would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his home way again.

Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us
continually. We joke with them and they answer back.


A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick
up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a
glance from him to me; we understand one another.

"Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there."

He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number."

Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen
miles.

The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes
against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These
branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there.

The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter
on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away
to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-
line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the front, now we are within its
embrace.

It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young
recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You can tell by the report;
now you'll hear the burst."

But the muffled thud of the burst does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of
the front: Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night."

We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp.

The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They
are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock.

"What's got them?" says Müller, "their clocks must be fast."

"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you. I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders.
...

(skip to track 2, -1:00 remaining)


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.

From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. To no man
does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and
powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire,
then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence
and her security; she shelters him and releases him for ten seconds to live, to run, ten seconds of
life; receives him again and often for ever.

Earth!--Earth!--Earth!

Earth with thy folds, and hollows, and holes, into which a man may fling himself and crouch
down. In the spasm of terror, under the hailing of annihilation, in the bellowing death of the
explosions, O Earth, thou grantest us the great resisting surge of new-won life. Our being, almost
utterly carried away by the fury of the storm, streams back through our hands from thee, and we,
thy redeemed ones, bury ourselves in thee, and through the long minutes in a mute agony of
hope bite into thee with our lips!

At the sound of the first droning of the shells we rush back, in one part of our being, a thousand
years. By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it
is far quicker, much more sure, less fallible, than consciousness. One cannot explain it. A man is
walking along without thought or heed;--suddenly he throws himself down on the ground and a
storm of fragments flies harmlessly over him;--yet he cannot remember either to have heard the
shell coming or to have thought of flinging himself down. But had he not abandoned himself to
the impulse he would now be a heap of mangled flesh. It is this other, this second sight in us, that
has thrown us to the ground and saved us, without our knowing how. If it were not so, there
would notice one man alive from Flanders to the Vosges.

We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers--we reach the zone where the front begins and
become on the instant human animals.

(skip to track 5, 1:25)


Once I fall fast asleep. Then wakening suddenly with a start I do not know where I am. I see the
stars, I see the rockets, and for a moment have the impression that I have fallen asleep at a garden fete. I don't know whether it is morning or evening, I lie in the pale cradle of the twilight,
and listen for soft words which will come, soft and near--am I crying? I put my hand to my eyes, it
is so fantastic, am I a child? Smooth skin;--it lasts only a second, then I recognise the silhouette of
Katczinsky. The old veteran, he sits quietly and smokes his pipe--a covered pipe of course. When
he sees I am awake, he says: "That gave you a fright. It was only a nose-cap, it landed in the
bushes over there."

I sit up, I feel myself strangely alone. It's good Kat is there. He gazes thoughtfully at the front and
says: "Mighty fine fire-works if they weren't so dangerous."

One lands behind us. Some recruits jump up terrified. A couple of minutes later another comes
over, nearer this time. Kat knocks out his pipe. "We're in for it."

Then it begins in earnest. We crawl away as well as we can in our haste. The next lands fair
amongst us. Two fellows cry out. Green rockets shoot up on the sky-line. Barrage. The mud flies
high, fragments whizz past. The crack of the guns is heard long after the roar of the explosions.

Beside us lies a fair-headed recruit in utter terror. He has buried his face in his hands, his helmet
has fallen off I fish hold of it and try to put it back on his head. He looks up, pushes the helmet off
and like a child creeps under my arm, his head close to my breast. The little shoulders heave.
Shoulders just like Kemmerich's. I let him be. So that the helmet should be of some use I stick it on
his behind;--not for a jest, but out of consideration, since that is his highest part. And though
there is plenty of meat there, a shot in it can be damned painful. Besides, a man has to lie for
months on his belly in the hospital, and afterwards he would be almost sure to have a limp.

It's got someone pretty badly. Cries are heard between the explosions.

At last it grows quiet. The fire has lifted over us and is now dropping on the reserves. We risk a
look. Red rockets shoot up to the sky. Apparently there's an attack coming.

Where we are it is still quiet. I sit up and shake the recruit by the shoulder. "All over, kid! It's all
right this time."

He looks round him dazedly. "You'll get used to it soon," I tell him.

He sees his helmet and puts it on. Gradually he comes to. Then suddenly he turns fiery red and
looks confused. Cautiously he reaches his hand to his behind and looks at me dismally.
I understand at once: Gun-shy. That wasn't the reason I had stuck his helmet over it. "That's no
disgrace," I reassure him: "Many's the man before you has had his pants full after the first
bombardment. Go behind that bush there and throw your underpants away. Get along --"--"

He goes off. Things become quieter, but the cries do not cease. "What's up, Albert?" I ask.

"A couple of columns over there got it in the neck."

The cries continued. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly.

"Wounded horses," says Kat.

It's unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish,
filled with terror, and groaning.

We are pale. Detering stands up. "God! For God's sake! Shoot them."

He is a farmer and very fond of horses. It gets under his skin. Then as if deliberately the fire dies
down again. The screaming of the beasts becomes louder. One can no longer distinguish whence
in this now quiet silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven
and earth it rolls on immeasurably. Detering raves and yells out: "Shoot them! Shoot them, can't
you? damn you again!"

"They must look after the men first," says Kat quietly.

We stand up and try to see where it is. If we could only see the animals we should be able to
endure it better. Müller has a pair of glasses. We see a dark group, bearers with stretchers, and
larger black clumps moving about. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some
gallop away in the distance, fall down, and then run on farther. The belly of one is ripped open,
the guts trail out. He becomes tangled in them and falls, then he stands up again.

Detering raises up his gun and aims. Kat hits it in the air. "Are you mad--?"

Detering trembles and throws his rifle on the ground.

We sit down and hold our ears. But this appalling noise, these groans and screams penetrate,
they penetrate everywhere.

.... (skip to track 9, in which the soldiers have taken shelter in a graveyard and there is a heavy bombardment, with shells falling all around them. )

But the shelling is stronger than everything. It wipes out the sensibilities, I merely crawl still
farther under the coffin, it shall protect me, though Death himself lies in it.

Before me gapes the shell-hole. I grasp it with my eyes as with fists. With one leap I must be in
it. There, I get a smack in the face, a hand clamps onto my shoulder--has the dead man waked
up?--The hand shakes me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into the face of Katczinsky,
he has his mouth wide open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes nearer, in a
momentary lull his voice reaches me: "Gas--Gaas--Gaaas--Pass it on."

I grab for my gas-mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think of nothing but this:
That fellow there must know: Gaaas--Gaaas-- I call, I lean toward him, I swipe at him with the
satchel, he doesn't see--once again, again--he merely ducks--it's a recruit--I look at Kat
desperately, he has his mask on--I pull out mine, too, my helmet falls to one side, it slips over my
face, I reach the man, his satchel is on the side nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head,
he understands, I let go and with a jump drop into the shell-hole.

The dull thud of the gas-shells mingles with the crashes of the high explosives. A bell sounds
between the explosions, gongs, and metal clappers warning everyone--Gas--Gas--Gaas.

Someone plumps down behind me, another. I wipe the goggles of my mask clear of the moist
breath. It is Kat, Kropp, and someone else. All four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and
breathe as lightly as possible.

These first minutes with the mask decide between life and death: is it air-tight? I remember the
awful sights in the hospital: the gas patients who in day-long suffocation cough up their burnt
lungs in clots.

Cautiously, the mouth applied to the valve, I breathe. The gas still creeps over the ground and
sinks into all hollows. Like a big, soft jellyfish it floats into our shell-hole and lolls there obscenely.
I nudge Kat, it is better to crawl out and lie on top than to stay where the gas collects most. But
we don't get as far as that; a second bombardment begins. It is no longer as though shells roared;
it is the earth itself raging.

With a crash something black bears down on us. It lands close beside us; a coffin thrown up.

I see Kat move and I crawl across. The coffin has hit the fourth man in our hole on his out-
stretched arm. He tries to tear off his gas-mask with the other hand. Kropp seizes him just in time,
twists the hand sharply behind his back and holds it fast. Kat and I proceed to free the wounded
arm. The coffin lid is loose and bursts open, we are easily able to pull it off, we toss the corpse
out, it slides down to the bottom of the shell-hole, then we try to loosen the under-part.

Fortunately the man swoons and Kropp is able to help us. We no longer have to be careful, but
work away till the coffin gives with a sigh before the spade that we have dug in under it.

It has grown lighter. Kat takes a piece of the lid, places it under the shattered arm, and we wrap
all our bandages round it. For the moment we can do no more.

Inside the gas-mask my head booms and roars--it is nigh bursting. My lungs are tight, they
breathe always the same hot, used-up air, the veins on my temples are swollen. I feel I am
suffocating.

A grey light filters through to us. I climb out over the edge of the shell-hole. In the duty twilight
lies a leg torn clean off; the boot is quite whole, I take that all in at a glance. Now something
stands up a few yards distant. I polish the windows, in my excitement they are immediately
dimmed again. I peer through them, the man there no longer wears his mask.

I wait some seconds--he has not collapsed--he looks around and makes a few paces--rattling in
my throat I tear my mask off too and fall down, the air streams into me like cold water, my eyes
are bursting the wave sweeps over me and extinguishes me.

The shelling has ceased, I turn towards the crater and beckoning to the others. They take off their
masks. We lift up the wounded man, one taking his splinted arm. And so we stumble off hastily.

The graveyard is a mass of wreckage. Coffins and corpses lie strewn about. They have been
killed once again; but each of them that was flung up saved one of us.

The hedge is destroyed, the rails of the light railway are torn up and rise stiffly in the air in great
arches. Someone lies in front of us. We stop; Kropp goes on alone with the wounded man.

The man on the ground is a recruit. His hip is covered with blood; he is so exhausted that I feel
for my water-bottle where I have rum and tea. Kat restrains my hand and stoops over him.

"Where's it got you comrade?"

His eyes move. He is too weak to answer.
We slit open his trousers carefully. He groans. "Gently, gently, it is much better--"

If he has been hit in the stomach he oughtn't to drink anything. There's no vomiting, that's a
good sign. We lay the hip bare. It is one mass of mincemeat and bone splinters. The joint has been
hit. This lad won't walk any more.

I wet his temples with a moistened finger and give him a swig. His eyes move again. We see now
that the right arm is bleeding as well.

Kat spreads out two wads of dressing as wide as possible so that they will cover the wound. I
look for something to bind loosely round it. We have nothing more, so I slip up the wounded
man's trouser leg still farther in order to use a piece of his underpants as a bandage. But he is
wearing none. I now look at him closely. He is the fair-headed boy of a little while ago.

In the meantime Kat has taken a bandage from a dead man's pocket and we carefully bind the
wound. I say to the youngster who looks at us fixedly: "We're going for a stretcher now--"

Then he opens his mouth and whispers: "Stay here--"

"We'll be back again soon," says Kat, "We are only going to get a stretcher for you."

We don't know if he understands. He whimpers like a child and plucks at us: "Don't go away--"
Kat looks around and whispers: "Shouldn't we just take a revolver and put an end to it?"

The youngster will hardly survive the carrying, and at the most he will only last a few days. What
he has gone through so far is nothing to what he's in for till he dies. Now he is numb and feels
nothing. In an hour he will become one screaming bundle of intolerable pain. Every day that he
can live will be a howling torture. And to whom does it matter whether he has them or not - I nod.

"Yes, Kat, we ought to put him out of his misery."

He stands still a moment. He has made up his mind. We look round--but we are no longer alone.
A little group is gathering, from the shell-holes and trenches appear heads.

We get a stretcher.

Kat shakes his head. "Such a kid--" He repeats it "Young innocents--"

Our losses are less than was to be expected--five killed and eight wounded. It was in fact quite a
short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We merely throw the earth in on
them.

We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to
the dressing-station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets,
the wounded whimper. It begins to rain.

An hour later we reach our lorries and climb in. There is more room now than there was.
The rain becomes heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The
rain rattles down, and flows off at the sides in streams. The lorries bump through the holes, and
we rock to and fro in a half-sleep.

Two men in the front of the lorry have long forked poles. They watch for telephone wires which
hang crosswise over the road so low that they might easily pull our heads off. The two fellows
take them at the right moment on their poles and lift them over behind us. We hear their call

"Mind--wire--," dip the knee in a half-sleep and straighten up again.

Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It
falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit
with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our
hearts.

An explosion sounds somewhere. We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to
vault over the side of the lorry into the ditch by the road.

Nothing happens--only the monotonous cry: "Mind--wire,"--our knees bend--we are again half asleep.