No change at the front, remark. “All Quiet on the Western Front” by Remarque

They were torn out of their usual life... They were thrown into the bloody mud of war... Once upon a time they were young men learning to live and think. Now they are cannon fodder. Soldiers. And they learn to survive and not think. Thousands and thousands will forever die on the fields of the First World War. Thousands and thousands of those who returned will still regret that they did not lie down with the dead. But for now, there is still no change on the western front...

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book All Quiet on the Western Front (Erich Maria Remarque, 1929) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

New additions have arrived. The empty spaces on the bunks are filled, and soon there is not a single empty mattress with straw in the barracks. Some of the new arrivals are old-timers, but in addition to them, twenty-five young people were sent to us from front-line transit points. They are almost a year younger than us. Kropp pushes me:

-Have you seen these babies yet?

I nod. We assume a proud, self-satisfied appearance, shave in the yard, walk with our hands in our pockets, glance at the new recruits and feel like old servants.

Katchinsky joins us. We walk around the stables and approach the newcomers, who are just getting gas masks and coffee for breakfast. Kat asks one of the youngest:

- Well, I guess you haven’t eaten anything useful for a long time?

The newcomer winces:

- For breakfast - rutabaga cakes, for lunch - rutabaga vinaigrette, for dinner - rutabaga cutlets with rutabaga salad.

Katchinsky whistles with the air of an expert.

- Rutabaga cakes? You are lucky, because now they are making bread from sawdust. What do you say about the beans, would you like some?

The guy is thrown into the paint:

– There’s no point in kidding me.

Katchinsky is laconic:

- Take the pot...

We follow him with curiosity. He leads us to a barrel standing near his mattress. The barrel is indeed almost filled with beans and beef. Katchinsky stands in front of him, as important as a general, and says:

- Well, come on! It's not good for a soldier to yawn!

We are amazed.

- Wow, Kat! And where did you get this? - I ask.

“Tomato was glad that I saved him the trouble.” I gave him three pieces of parachute silk for this. So, beans and cold food are all you need, huh?

With the air of a benefactor, he gives the boy a portion and says:

“If you come here again, you will have a bowler hat in your right hand, and a cigar or a handful of tobacco in your left hand.” It's clear?

Then he turns to us:

- Of course, I won’t take anything from you.

Katchinsky is an absolutely irreplaceable person - he has some kind of sixth sense. People like him are everywhere, but you can never recognize them in advance. Each company has one, or even two soldiers from this breed. Katchinsky is the most wily of everyone I know. By profession he seems to be a shoemaker, but that’s not the point - he knows all the crafts. It's good to be friends with him. Kropp and I are friends with him, Haye Westhus can also be considered part of our company. However, he is more of an executive body: when some business comes up that requires strong fists, he works according to Kata’s instructions. For this he gets his share.

Here we arrive, for example, at night in a completely unfamiliar area, in some miserable town, upon seeing which it immediately becomes clear that everything here has long been taken away except the walls. We are given overnight accommodation in an unlit building of a small factory, temporarily converted into barracks. There are beds in it, or rather, wooden frames on which wire mesh is stretched.

Sleeping on this mesh is tough. We have nothing to put under us - we need blankets to cover ourselves. The raincoat is too thin.

Kat finds out the situation and says to Haya Westhus:

- Come on, come with me.

They go to the city, although it is completely unfamiliar to them. After about half an hour they return, holding huge armfuls of straw in their hands. Kat found a stable, and there was straw in it. Now we’ll sleep well, and we could go to bed, but our stomachs are churning from hunger.

Kropp asks some artilleryman who has been standing here with his unit for a long time:

- Is there a canteen around here somewhere?

The artilleryman laughs:

- Look what you want! You can roll a ball here. Here you won't even get a crust of bread.

– What, none of the locals live here anymore?

The artilleryman spits:

- Why, some people stayed. Only they themselves work at each boiler and beg.

It's bad. Apparently, we’ll have to tighten the belt and wait until the morning when they drop off food.

But then I see that Kat is putting on his cap, and I ask:

-Where are you going, Kat?

- Scout the area. Maybe we can squeeze something out.

He slowly goes out into the street.

The artilleryman grins:

- Squeeze, squeeze! Be careful not to overstrain yourself!

In complete disappointment, we collapse on our beds and are already thinking about whether to gobble up a piece from the emergency supply. But this seems too risky to us. Then we try to take it out on a dream.

Kropp breaks off the cigarette and gives me half. Tjaden talks about beans with lard, a dish that is so popular in his native land. He curses those who cook them without the pods. First of all, you need to cook everything together - potatoes, beans and lard - in no case separately. Someone grumpily remarks that if Tjaden doesn’t shut up now, he will make bean porridge out of him. After this, the spacious workshop becomes quiet and calm. Only a few candles flicker in the necks of bottles and an artilleryman spits from time to time.

We are already starting to doze off, when suddenly the door opens and Kat appears on the threshold. At first it seems to me that I am seeing a dream: he has two loaves of bread under his arm, and in his hand is a blood-stained bag of horse meat.

The artilleryman drops the pipe from his mouth. He feels the bread:

– Indeed, real bread, and warm at that!

Kat is not going to expand on this topic. He brought bread, and the rest doesn't matter. I am sure that if he were dropped off in the desert, he would have a dinner of dates, roast and wine within an hour.

He briefly says to Haya:

- Chop some wood!

Then he pulls a frying pan from under his jacket and takes out a handful of salt and even a piece of fat from his pocket - he has not forgotten anything. Haye makes a fire on the floor. Firewood crackles loudly in the empty workshop. We get out of bed.

The artilleryman hesitates. He is thinking about expressing his admiration - maybe then he will get something too. But Katchinsky doesn’t even look at the artilleryman, he’s just an empty place for him. He leaves, muttering curses.

Kat knows a way to fry horse meat to make it soft. You can’t put it on the frying pan right away, otherwise it will be tough. First you need to boil it in water. With knives in hand, we squat around the fire and eat our fill.

This is our Kat. If there was a place in the world where it was possible to get something edible only once a year for one hour, then it was at that hour that, as if on a whim, he would put on his cap, hit the road and, rushing, as if following a compass , straight to the target, I would have found this food.

He finds everything: when it’s cold, he finds a stove and firewood, he looks for hay and straw, tables and chairs, but above all, food. This is some kind of mystery, he pulls it all out as if from underground, as if by magic. He outdid himself when he produced four cans of lobster. However, we would prefer a piece of lard to them.

We lay down near the barracks, on the sunny side. Smells like tar, summer and sweaty feet.

Kat is sitting next to me; he is never averse to talking. Today we were forced to practice for an hour - we learned to salute, as Tjaden casually saluted to some major. Kat still can't forget this. He states:

“You’ll see, we’ll lose the war because we know how to trump too well.”

Kropp approaches us. Barefoot, with his pants rolled up, he strides like a crane. He washed his socks and lays them on the grass to dry. Kat looks at the sky, emits a loud sound and thoughtfully explains:

– This sigh came from the pea.

Kropp and Kat enter into a discussion. At the same time, they bet on a bottle of beer on the outcome of the air battle that is now being played out above us.

Kat firmly adheres to his opinion, which he, like an old joker soldier, expresses in poetic form: “If everyone were equal, there would be no war in the world.”

In contrast to Kathu, Kropp is a philosopher. He suggests that when war is declared, there should be a kind of public festival, with music and entrance fees, like a bullfight. Then the ministers and generals of the warring countries should enter the arena in panties, armed with clubs, and let them fight each other. Whoever survives will declare his country the winner. It would be simpler and fairer than what is being done here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.

Kropp's proposal is a success. Then the conversation gradually turns to drill in the barracks.

At the same time, I remember one picture. Hot afternoon in the barracks yard. The heat hangs motionless over the parade ground. The barracks seemed to have died out. Everybody sleeps. You can only hear the drummers practicing; they are located somewhere nearby and are drumming ineptly, monotonously, stupidly. A wonderful triad: midday heat, barracks yard and drum roll!

The windows of the barracks are empty and dark. Here and there soldiers' trousers are drying on the windowsills. You look at these windows with lust. It's cool in the barracks now.

Oh, the dark, stuffy barracks with your iron cots, checkered blankets, high lockers and benches standing in front of them! Even you can become desirable; Moreover: here, at the front, you are illuminated by the reflection of a fabulously distant homeland and home, you, closets, saturated with the fumes of sleepers and their clothes, smelling of stale food and tobacco smoke!

Katchinsky paints them sparingly and with great enthusiasm. What we wouldn't give to go back there! After all, we don’t even dare to think about anything more...

And small arms classes in the early morning hours: “What does a 1998 model rifle consist of?” And gymnastics classes in the afternoon: “Whoever plays the piano is a step forward. Right shoulder forward - step march. Report to the kitchen that you have arrived to peel potatoes.”

We revel in the memories. Suddenly Kropp laughs and says:

- There is a transfer in Lein.

This was our corporal's favorite game. Leine is a junction station. To prevent our vacationers from getting lost on its path, Himmelstoss taught us in the barracks how to make a transfer. We had to learn that if you want to change from a long-distance train to a local one at Leina, you have to go through a tunnel. Each of us stood to the left of our bunk, which represented this tunnel. Then the command was given: “There is a transfer at Lane!” - and everyone crawled under the bunks to the other side with the speed of lightning. We practiced this for hours...

Meanwhile, the German airplane was shot down. He falls like a comet, trailing a tail of smoke behind him. Kropp lost a bottle of beer on this and reluctantly counts out the money.

“And when Himmelstoss was a postman, he must have been a modest man,” I said, after Albert had gotten over his disappointment, “but as soon as he became a non-commissioned officer, he turned into a flayer.” How does this work?

This question stirred up Kropp:

– And not only Himmelstoss, this happens to many people. As soon as they receive stripes or a saber, they immediately become completely different people, as if they had drunk too much concrete.

“It’s all in the uniform,” I suggest.

“Yes, in general, something like that,” says Kat, preparing to give a whole speech, “but that’s not the reason to look for.” You see, if you teach a dog to eat potatoes, and then give him a piece of meat, he will still grab the meat, because it is in his blood. And if you give a person a piece of power, the same thing will happen to him: he will grab onto it. This happens naturally, because man as such is, first and foremost, a beast, and unless on top he has a layer of decency, like a crust of bread on which lard has been spread. The whole point of military service is that one has power over another. The only bad thing is that everyone has too much of it; a non-commissioned officer can drive a private, a lieutenant - a non-commissioned officer, a captain - a lieutenant, so much so that a person can go crazy. And since each of them knows that this is his right, he develops such habits. Take the simplest example: we’re coming back from training and we’re as tired as dogs. And then the command: “Sing!” Of course, we sing in such a way that it’s sickening to listen to: everyone is glad that at least they can still carry a rifle. And now the company was turned around and, as punishment, they were forced to study for another hour. On the way back, the command again: “Sing!” – and this time we sing for real. What's the point in all this? Yes, the company commander just put it his way, because he has power. No one will say anything to him about this; on the contrary, everyone considers him a real officer. But this is still a small thing, they are not even inventing such things to show off our brother. And so I ask you: who, in what civilian position, even in the highest rank, can afford something like this, without risking that they will punch him in the face? This can only be done in the army! And this, you know, will turn anyone’s head! And the smaller a person was in civilian life, the more questions are asked here.

“Well, yes, as they say, discipline is needed,” Kropp casually inserts.

“They’ll always find something to complain about,” Kat grumbles. - Well, maybe that’s how it should be. But you just can’t mock people. But try to explain all this to some mechanic, farm laborer, or working person in general, try to explain this to a simple infantryman - and there are more of them here - he only sees that he is being skinned for three times, and then he will be sent to the front, and he understands perfectly what is needed and what is not needed. If a simple soldier here on the front line holds on so steadfastly, I’ll tell you, it’s simply amazing! That is simply amazing!

Everyone agrees, since each of us knows that drill ends only in the trenches, but already a few kilometers from the front line it begins again, and begins with the most ridiculous things - with trumping and pacing. A soldier must be occupied with something at all costs, this is an iron law.

But then Tjaden appears, red spots on his face. He is so excited that he even stutters. Beaming with joy, he says, clearly pronouncing each syllable:

- Himmelstoss is coming to us. He was sent to the front.

... Tjaden has a special hatred for Himmelstoss, because during our stay in the barracks camp Himmelstoss “educated” him in his own way. Tjaden urinates on himself, this sin happens to him at night, in his sleep. Himmelstoss categorically declared that this was just laziness, and found an excellent remedy, quite worthy of its inventor, to heal Tjaden.

Himmelstoss found another soldier in a nearby barracks, suffering from the same illness, named Kinderfather, and transferred him to Tjaden. In the barracks there were ordinary army bunks, two-tiered, with wire mesh. Himmelstoss placed Tjaden and Kindervater so that one of them got the top place, the other the bottom. It is clear that the person lying below had a hard time. But the next evening they had to change places: the one lying below moved upstairs, and thus retribution was accomplished. Himmelstoss called this self-education.

It was a mean, albeit witty, invention. Unfortunately, nothing came of it, since the premise turned out to be incorrect: in both cases, the matter was not explained by laziness. In order to understand this, it was enough to look at their sallow skin. It ended with one of them sleeping on the floor every night. At the same time, he could easily catch a cold...

Meanwhile, Haye also sat down with us. He winks at me and lovingly rubs his paw. Together with him we experienced the most wonderful day of our soldier’s life. This was on the eve of our departure to the front. We were assigned to one of the regiments with a multi-digit number, but first we were called back to the garrison for equipment, but we were sent not to the assembly point, but to other barracks. The next day we had to leave early in the morning. In the evening we got together to get even with Himmelstoss. Several months ago we vowed to each other to do this. Kropp went even further in his plans: he decided that after the war he would go to serve in the postal department, so that later, when Himmelstoss was again a postman, he would become its boss. He enthusiastically pictured to himself how he would be taught at school. That is why Himmelstoss could not break us; we always counted on the fact that sooner or later he would fall into our hands, at least at the end of the war.

For now, we decided to give him a good beating. What special can they do to us for this if he doesn’t recognize us, and we’re leaving tomorrow morning anyway?

We already knew the pub where he sat every evening. When he returned from there to the barracks, he had to walk along an unlit road where there were no houses. There we lay in wait for him, hiding behind a pile of stones. I took my bedding with me. We were trembling with impatience. What if he won't be alone? Finally we heard his steps - we had already studied them, because we heard them so often in the mornings, when the barracks door swung open and the orderlies shouted at the top of their lungs: “Get up!”

- One? – Kropp whispered.

Tjaden and I sneaked around the stones.

The buckle on Himmelstoss’s belt was already sparkling. Apparently, the non-commissioned officer was a little tipsy: he was singing. Suspecting nothing, he walked past us.

We grabbed the bedding, threw it over, silently jumped on Himmelstoss from behind, and sharply pulled the ends so that he, standing in the white sack, could not raise his arms. The song stopped.

Another moment, and Haye Westhus was near Himmelstoss. With his elbows spread wide, he threw us away - he so wanted to be first. Savoring every movement, he struck a pose, stretched out his long arm, like a semaphore, with a huge palm, like a shovel, and moved the bag so hard that this blow could kill a bull.

Himmelstoss tumbled, flew five meters away and screamed obscenities. But we thought about this in advance: we had a pillow with us. Haye sat down, put the pillow on his lap, grabbed Himmelstoss by the place where his head should be, and pressed it to the pillow. The non-commissioned officer's voice immediately became muffled. From time to time Haye let him catch his breath, and then the mooing for a minute turned into a magnificent ringing cry, which immediately weakened again to a squeak.

Then Tjaden unfastened Himmelstoss's suspenders and pulled down his pants. Tjaden held the whip in his teeth. Then he stood up and started working with his hands.

It was a wondrous picture: Himmelstoss lying on the ground, bending over him and holding his head in Haye’s lap, with a devilish smile on his face and his mouth open with pleasure, then shuddering striped underpants on crooked legs, performing the most intricate movements under their lowered pants, and Above them, in the pose of a woodcutter, is the tireless Tjaden. In the end we had to force him away, otherwise we would never have gotten our turn.

Finally, Haye brought Himmelstoss back to his feet and concluded with another individual number. Swinging his right hand almost to the sky, as if about to grab a handful of stars, he slapped Himmelstoss across the face. Himmelstoss tipped over on his back. Haye picked him up again, brought him to his original position and, showing a high level of accuracy, rolled him a second one - this time with his left hand. Himmelstoss howled and, getting down on all fours, ran away. His striped postman's butt glowed in the moonlight.

We retreated at a trot.

Haye looked around again and said with satisfaction, angrily and somewhat mysteriously:

– Bloody revenge is like blood sausage.

In essence, Himmelstoss should have rejoiced: after all, his words that people should always mutually educate each other did not go in vain, they were applied to himself. We turned out to be intelligent students and learned his method well.

He never found out who arranged this surprise for him. True, at the same time he purchased a bedding, which we no longer found at the scene when we looked there a few hours later.

The events of that evening were the reason that, when we left for the front the next morning, we behaved quite bravely. An old man with a flowing, thick beard was so moved by our appearance that he called us young heroes.

Erich Maria Remarque is not just a name, it is an entire generation of writers of the 20th century. Enlisted in the ranks of "", the writer, probably like no one else in the world, drew a line of unprecedented width between peaceful life and war. The sadness and hopelessness caused by the war, like a red thread, runs through all of Remarque’s works, and each of his new books seems to be a continuation of the previous one, thereby blurring the line between them, but there is one work on which I would like to place special emphasis. This is the great novel All Quiet on the Western Front.

The monstrous and shocking events that took place in the first half of the 20th century became a tangible impetus for the appearance of a number of works dedicated to anti-war movements and calls to lay down arms. Along with such high-profile novels as "" by Ernest Hemingway, "Death of a Hero" by Richard Aldington and many others, we have no right to ignore "All Quiet on the Western Front."

The history of the creation of the novel is very interesting. Being one of the first works by Remarque, “All Quiet on the Western Front” largely predetermined the further, including creative, fate of the writer. The fact is that Remarque published his anti-war novel in 1929 in Germany, a country that was in a kind of transitional stage between the two world wars. On the one hand, the country that lost the First World War was defeated and was in a serious crisis, but on the other hand, revanchist ideas were glowing in the minds of the population, and therefore pro-war sentiments were revived with renewed vigor. Before the Nazis came to power, Remarque's novel gained universal recognition for its author, which, to a certain extent, became a real revelation. After the establishment of the Nazi regime, the writer’s work was banned, his book was publicly burned, and the writer himself was forced to leave the aisles of his beloved and once native land. The writer's departure allowed him some freethinking, which cannot be said about his sister, who remained in Germany. In 1943, she was sentenced to death for "unpatriotic statements."

Remarque said about his novel that this is not an attempt to justify himself to the public, that his book does not act as a confession to the millions of victims who died during the conflict. Thus, he is only trying to show the situation from the inside, as an eyewitness and direct participant in the hostilities. Everyone knows that the writer took part in hostilities, so he was familiar with all the horrors firsthand. This is probably why his book is filled with such realistic and sad events. Remarque's hero does not look like a typical American savior, a worn-out image of Superman. His hero does not kill enemies in droves, he does not rush into battle first with a sword drawn, on the contrary, he is a completely down-to-earth person with an instinct for self-preservation, who is essentially no different from hundreds and thousands of other soldiers of the same kind. Realism also lies in the fact that we do not see pictures that are pleasing to the eye with a happy ending or miraculous salvation of the characters. This is the usual story of ordinary soldiers who are caught in the meat grinder of war; there is no need to think anything out, it is enough to just tell without embellishment how everything really happened. And in this regard, for the reader who historically holds political views different from the Germans, it will be doubly interesting to observe what the soldiers felt and how they lived on the other side of the barricades.

All Quiet on the Western Front is largely an autobiographical novel. The main character, on whose behalf the story is told, is named Paul. It is noteworthy that the writer’s birth name was Erich Paul Remarque, and later took the pseudonym Erich Maria Remarque. It is safe to say that Paul in “All Quiet on the Western Front” is Remarque himself, with the only difference being that the writer managed to return from the front alive. While still a schoolboy, Paul, along with his classmates, was overtaken by wartime, and as mentioned above, wartime sentiment reigned in the country and it was not appropriate for a young man in the prime of his life to sit at home, therefore, out of duty, everyone was supposed to go to the front along with other volunteers , otherwise constant sidelong glances from the side would be ensured. Paul, side by side with his school friends, volunteers to join the army and sees with his own eyes all the fear and horror that is happening. Arriving at the front as a yellow-throated chick, after a short time, the surviving comrades meet the new arrivals already at the rank of experienced fighters, who have seen the death of their brothers-in-arms and the hardships of war. One by one, the war, like a sickle cutting off young ears of corn, mowed down former comrades. The scene of a dinner in a village burning from shelling looks like a real feast during the plague, and the height of all the recklessness and senselessness of the war was the episode in which Paul carries away his wounded comrade from under fire, but upon reaching a protected place, he turns out to be dead. Fate did not spare Paul himself!

We can debate for a very long time about who is right and who is wrong in that war; and whether we could have avoided it altogether. But it is worth understanding that each side fought for its own beliefs, even if it is difficult for us to understand, and most importantly, accept the ideals of the other side. But in that war the same ordinary soldiers fought, driven forward by obese generals. One of the characters in All Quiet on the Western Front, Kropp, said: “Let the generals fight themselves, and the winner will declare his country the winner.” And it’s true, it would be fun if kings, kings or generals fought themselves, risking life and health. Such wars hardly lasted long, if at all they lasted even one day!

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is only an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.

Erich Maria Remarque IM WESTEN NICHTS NEUES

Translation from German by Yu.N. Afonkina

Serial design by A.A. Kudryavtseva

Computer design A.V. Vinogradova

Reprinted with permission from The Estate of the Late Paulette Remarque and Mohrbooks AG Literary Agency and Synopsis.

The exclusive rights to publish the book in Russian belong to AST Publishers. Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

© The Estate of the Late Paulette Remarque, 1929

© Translation. Yu.N. Afonkin, heirs, 2014

© Russian edition AST Publishers, 2014

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; Now our stomachs are full of beans and meat, and we all walk around full and satisfied. Even for dinner, everyone got a full pot; On top of that, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This hasn’t happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his crimson, like a tomato, bald head himself offers us more food; he waves the ladle, inviting passers-by, and pours out hefty portions to them. He still won’t empty his “squeaker,” and this drives him into despair. Tjaden and Müller obtained several basins from somewhere and filled them to the brim - in reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Müller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But the most important thing is that the smoke was also given out in double portions. Each person had ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two bars of chewing tobacco. Overall, pretty decent. I exchanged Katchinsky’s cigarettes for my tobacco, so now I have forty in total. You can last one day.

But, strictly speaking, we are not entitled to all this at all. The management is not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to relieve another unit. It was quite calm in our area, so by the day of our return the captain received allowances according to the usual distribution and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day, the British suddenly brought up their heavy “meat grinders”, most unpleasant things, and beat them on our trenches for so long that we suffered heavy losses, and only eighty people returned from the front line.

We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on our bunks to first get a good night's sleep; Katchinsky is right: the war would not be so bad if only one could sleep more. You never get much sleep on the front line, and two weeks drag on for a long time.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already midday. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at the “squeaker” dear to our hearts, which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always had the biggest appetite: short Albert Kropp, the brightest head in our company and, probably for this reason, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams: under hurricane fire, he crams the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls from brothels for officers: he swears that there is an order in the army obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and to take a bath before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above; the fourth is me, Paul Bäumer. All four were nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a mechanic, a frail young man of the same age as us, the most gluttonous soldier in the company - for food he sits thin and slender, and after eating, he stands up pot-bellied, like a sucked bug; Haye Westhus, also our age, a peat worker who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our squad, a man with character, smart and cunning - he is forty years old, he has a sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary sense of smell about when the shelling will begin, where you can get food and how It's best to hide from your superiors.

Our section headed the line that formed near the kitchen. We began to get impatient as the unsuspecting cook was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

- Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily:

- Let everyone gather first.

Tjaden grinned:

- And we are all here!

The cook still didn't notice anything:

- Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

- They are not on your payroll today! Some are in the infirmary, and some are in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was struck down. He was even shaken:

- And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

“That means we’ll eat our fill at least once.” Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tjaden. His face, sharp as a mouse, lit up, his eyes squinted slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

- Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded cook nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest:

- And sausage too?

The cook nodded again with his head as purple as a tomato. Tjaden's jaw dropped:

- And tobacco?

- Well, yes, that's it.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

- Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will go to us! It will be - just wait! – that’s right, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and said:

- It won’t work that way.

Now we, too, shook off our sleep and squeezed closer.

- Hey, carrot, why won’t it work? – asked Katchinsky.

- Yes, because eighty is not one hundred and fifty!

“But we’ll show you how to do it,” Muller grumbled.

“You’ll get the soup, so be it, but I’ll give you bread and sausage only for eighty,” Tomato continued to persist.

Katchinsky lost his temper:

“I wish I could send you to the front line just once!” You received food not for eighty people, but for the second company, that’s it. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, through his fault, lunch or dinner ended up in our trenches cold, very late, since even with the most insignificant fire he did not dare to move closer with his cauldron and our food bearers had to crawl much further than their brothers from other mouths. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. Even though he was fat as a hamster, if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the very front.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and, probably, things would have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. Having learned what we were arguing about, he only said:

- Yes, yesterday we had big losses...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

– And the beans seem to be quite good.

The tomato nodded:

- With lard and beef.

The lieutenant looked at us. He understood what we were thinking. In general, he understood a lot - after all, he himself came from our midst: he came to the company as a non-commissioned officer. He lifted the lid of the cauldron again and sniffed. As he left, he said:

- Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions for everyone. Why should good things disappear?

No change on the Western Front Erich Maria Remarque

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Title: All Quiet on the Western Front
Author: Erich Maria Remarque
Year: 1929
Genre: Classical prose, Foreign classics, Literature of the 20th century

About the book “All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque

Erich Maria Remarque's book All Quiet on the Western Front definitely deserves its popularity. No wonder it was included in the list of books that every person should read.

Read it too by downloading it at the bottom of the page in fb2, rtf, epub, txt formats.

Surely, after the book “All Quiet on the Western Front,” which talks about the First World War, humanity no longer had to start wars. After all, the horrors of a senseless battle are so realistically conveyed here that it is sometimes difficult to get rid of the cruel images in the imagination. And in this case, Paul - the main character of the book - and all his classmates seem to reflect the entire society of that time.

Yes, probably the worst thing is that the guys who were still very green went to war. Paul was twenty, but eighteen-year-olds could also be seen on the battlefield... Why did they come here? Wasn't there anything more important in their lives? And all because everyone who “mowed down” automatically became outcasts. In addition, there were “patriotically minded” teachers who recruited young people to go and die...

And he himself was in the war - we learn about this from his biography. But for some reason he is better known for such novels as “” or. In the book “All Quiet on the Western Front,” the author shows the world in a completely different way. From the point of view of a young guy about a terrible, bloody, terrifying war. It is not strange that upon arriving home, Paul does not want to put on his uniform and talk about the war: he wants to walk around in civilian clothes, like an ordinary person.

Reading the book, you understand that Remarque did not only write about war. He showed the world friendship - real, unconditional, masculine. Unfortunately, such feelings are not destined to exist for long - alas, the war is cruel and sweeps away everyone. And in general, if you think about it, who needs such a generation in principle? People who know nothing but kill... But are they to blame for this?

As Kropp, Paul's classmate, said, it would be much better if only generals fought. And while young, innocent people are fighting for them, no one needs war. The verdict is to read Remarque and his “All Quiet on the Western Front” so that the war will never happen again!

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Quotes from the book “All Quiet on the Western Front” by Erich Maria Remarque

We have forgotten how to reason differently, because all other reasoning is artificial. We attach importance only to facts, only they are important to us. But good boots are not so easy to find.

I see that someone is setting one nation against another, and people are killing each other, in a mad blindness, submitting to someone else’s will, not knowing what they are doing, not knowing their guilt. I see that the best minds of mankind are inventing weapons to prolong this nightmare, and finding words to justify it even more subtly. And together with me, all people of my age see this, here and here, all over the world, our entire generation is experiencing this.

To what extent is our thousand-year-old civilization deceitful and worthless if it could not even prevent these flows of blood, if it allowed hundreds of thousands of such dungeons to exist in the world. Only in the infirmary do you see with your own eyes what war is.

We are small flames, barely protected by shaky walls from the storm of destruction and madness, trembling under its gusts and every minute ready to fade away forever.

Our harsh life is closed in on itself, it flows somewhere on the very surface of life, and only occasionally does an event throw sparks into it.

We distinguish between things like traders and understand necessity like butchers.

They were still writing articles and making speeches, and we already saw hospitals and dying people; they still insisted that there was nothing higher than serving the state, and we already knew that the fear of death was stronger.

Katchinsky is right: the war would not be so bad if only one could sleep more.

They should have helped us, eighteen years old, enter the time of maturity, into the world of work, duty, culture and progress, and become mediators between us and our future. Sometimes we made fun of them, sometimes we could play some joke on them, but deep down in our hearts we believed them. Recognizing their authority, we mentally associated knowledge of life and foresight with this concept. But as soon as we saw the first killed, this belief dissipated into dust. We realized that their generation is not as honest as ours; their superiority lay only in the fact that they knew how to speak beautifully and possessed a certain dexterity. The very first artillery shelling revealed our delusion to us, and under this fire the worldview that they instilled in us collapsed.

Katchinsky claims that it’s all because of education, because it supposedly makes people stupid. And Kat doesn’t waste words.
And it so happened that Bem was one of the first to die. During the attack he was wounded in the face and we considered him dead. We could not take him with us, as we had to hastily retreat. In the afternoon we suddenly heard him scream; he crawled in front of the trenches and called for help. During the battle he only lost consciousness. Blind and mad with pain, he no longer sought shelter, and was shot down before we could pick him up.
Kantorek, of course, cannot be blamed for this - to blame him for what he did would mean going very far. After all, there were thousands of Kantoreks, and they were all convinced that in this way they were doing a good deed, without really bothering themselves.

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Page 11 of 13

Chapter 10

We found ourselves a warm place. Our team of eight must guard a village that had to be abandoned because the enemy was shelling it too heavily.

First of all, we were ordered to look after the food warehouse, from which not everything has been taken out yet. We must provide ourselves with food from available reserves. We're experts at this. We are Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Leer, Detering. Our entire squad gathered here. True, Haye is no longer alive. But we can still consider ourselves very lucky - in all other departments there were much more losses than ours.

For housing, we choose a concrete cellar with a staircase leading out. The entrance is also protected by a special concrete wall.

Then we develop a flurry of activity. We again had the opportunity to relax not only with our bodies, but also with our souls. But we don’t miss such cases, our situation is desperate, and we cannot indulge in sentimentality for a long time. You can indulge in despondency only as long as things are not completely bad." We have to look at things simply, we have no other way out. So simple that sometimes, when some thought wanders into my head for a minute, those pre-war times, I feel downright scared, but such thoughts don’t linger for long.

We must take our situation as calmly as possible. We take advantage of any opportunity for this. Therefore, next to the horrors of war, side by side with them, without any transition, in our lives there is the desire to fool around. And now we are working with zeal to create an idyll for ourselves - of course, an idyll in the sense of food and sleep.

First of all, we line the floor with mattresses that we brought from homes. A soldier’s butt is also sometimes not averse to being pampered on something soft. Only in the middle of the cellar is there free space. Then we get blankets and feather beds, incredibly soft, absolutely luxurious things. Fortunately, there is enough of all this in the village. Albert and I find a collapsible mahogany bed with a blue silk canopy and lace throws. We sweated seven times while we dragged her here, but we really can’t deny ourselves this, especially since in a few days she will probably be blown to pieces by shells.

Kat and I are going home for reconnaissance. Soon we manage to pick up a dozen eggs and two pounds of fairly fresh butter. We are standing in some living room, when suddenly a crash is heard and, breaking through the wall, an iron stove flies into the room, whistling past us and, at a distance of a meter, again goes into another wall. Two holes remain. The stove flew from the house opposite, which was hit by a shell.

“Lucky,” Kat grins, and we continue our search.

Suddenly we prick up our ears and take off running. Following this, we stop as if enchanted: two live piglets are frolicking in a small nook. We rub our eyes and carefully look there again. In fact, they are still there. We touch them with our hands. There is no doubt, these are really two young pigs.

This will be a delicious dish! About fifty steps from our dugout there is a small house in which the officers lived. In the kitchen we find a huge stove with two burners, frying pans, pots and cauldrons. There is everything here, including an impressive supply of finely chopped firewood stacked in the barn. Not a house, but a full cup.

In the morning we sent two of them into the field to look for potatoes, carrots and young peas. We live large, canned food from the warehouse does not suit us, we wanted something fresh. There are already two heads of cauliflower in the closet.

The piglets are slaughtered. Kat took over this matter. We want to bake potato pancakes for the roast. But we don't have potato graters. However, even here we soon find a way out of the situation: we take lids from tin cans, punch a lot of holes in them with a nail, and the graters are ready. Three of us put on thick gloves to avoid scratching our fingers, the other two peel the potatoes, and things get going.

Khat performs sacred acts over piglets, carrots, peas and cauliflower. He even made a white sauce for the cabbage. I bake potato pancakes, four at a time. After ten minutes, I got the hang of throwing pancakes that were fried on one side into the frying pan so that they turned over in the air and plopped back into place. The piglets are roasted whole. Everyone stands around them, like at an altar.

Meanwhile, guests came to us: two radio operators, whom we generously invite to dine with us. They are sitting in the living room, where there is a piano. One of them sat down next to him and played, the other sang “On the Weser”. He sings with feeling, but his pronunciation is clearly Saxon. Nevertheless, we listen to him movingly, standing at the stove on which all these delicious things are fried and baked.

After a while we notice that we are being fired upon, and in earnest. Tethered balloons detected smoke from our chimney, and the enemy opened fire on us. It's those nasty little things that dig a shallow hole and produce so many pieces that fly far and low. They are whistling around us, getting closer and closer, but we can’t really throw all the food here. Gradually these sneaks took aim. Several fragments fly through the upper frame of the window into the kitchen. We'll get through the roast quickly. But baking pancakes is becoming increasingly difficult. The explosions follow each other so quickly that the fragments increasingly splash against the wall and pour out through the window. Every time I hear the whistle of another toy, I squat down, holding a frying pan with pancakes in my hands, and press myself against the wall by the window. Then I immediately get up and continue baking.

The Saxon stopped playing - one of the fragments hit the piano. Little by little, we have managed our affairs and are organizing a retreat. After waiting for the next gap, two people take pots of vegetables and run like a bullet fifty meters to the dugout. We see them dive into it.

Another break. Everyone ducks down, and the second pair, each with a pot of first-class coffee in their hands, sets off at a trot and manages to take refuge in the dugout before the next break.

Then Kat and Kropp pick up a large pan of browned roast. This is the highlight of our program. The howl of a shell, a crouch - and now they are rushing, covering fifty meters of unprotected space.

I'm baking the last four pancakes; During this time I have to squat on the floor twice, but still, now we have four more pancakes, and this is my favorite food.

Then I grab a plate with a tall stack of pancakes and stand, leaning against the door. A hiss, a crack, and I gallop away from my seat, clutching the dish to my chest with both hands. I'm almost there, when suddenly I hear a growing whistle. I rush like an antelope and go around the concrete wall like a whirlwind. The fragments drum on it; I slide down the stairs to the cellar; My elbows are broken, but I haven’t lost a single pancake or knocked over a dish.

At two o'clock we sit down for lunch. We eat until six. Until half past six we drink coffee, officer coffee from the food warehouse, and at the same time smoke officer cigars and cigarettes - all from the same warehouse. At exactly seven we start having dinner. At ten o'clock we throw the pig skeletons out the door. Then we move on to cognac and rum, again from the stock of the blessed warehouse, and again we smoke long, thick cigars with stickers on the belly. Tjaden claims that only one thing is missing - girls from the officer's brothel.

Late in the evening we hear meowing. A small gray kitten sits at the entrance. We lure him in and give him something to eat. This gives us our appetite again. When we go to bed, we still chew.

However, we have a hard time at night. We ate too much fat. Fresh suckling pig is very taxing on the stomach. The movement in the dugout never stops. Two or three people sit outside all the time with their pants down and curse everything in the world. I myself do ten passes. At about four o'clock in the morning we set a record: all eleven people, the guard team and the guests, sat around the dugout.

Burning houses blaze in the night like torches. The shells fly out of the darkness and crash into the ground with a roar. Columns of vehicles with ammunition rush along the road. One of the warehouse walls has been demolished. The drivers from the column crowd around the gap like a swarm of bees, and, despite the falling fragments, they take away the bread. We don't bother them. If we decided to stop them, they would beat us, that’s all. That's why we act differently. We explain that we are security, and since we know what is where, we bring canned food and exchange it for things that we lack. Why worry about them, because soon there will be nothing left here anyway! For ourselves, we bring chocolate from the warehouse and eat it whole bars. Kat says it's good to eat when your stomach gives you no rest to your legs.

Almost two weeks pass, during which all we do is eat, drink and laze around. Nobody bothers us. The village is slowly disappearing under the explosions of shells, and we live a happy life. As long as at least part of the warehouse is intact, we don’t need anything else, and we have only one desire - to stay here until the end of the war.

Tjaden has become so picky that he only smokes half of his cigars. He explains with importance that this has become a habit of his. Kat is also weird - when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is shout:

Emil, bring caviar and coffee! In general, we are all terribly arrogant, one considers the other his orderly, addresses him as “you” and gives him instructions.

Kropp, my soles are itching, try to catch the louse.

With these words, Leer extends his leg to Albert, like a spoiled artist, and he drags him up the stairs by the leg.

At ease, Tjaden! By the way, remember: not “what,” but “I obey.” Well, one more time: “Tjaden!”

Tjaden bursts into abuse and again quotes the famous passage from Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen, which is always on his tongue.

Another week passes and we receive orders to return. Our happiness has come to an end. Two large trucks take us with them. Boards are piled on top of them. But Albert and I still manage to put our four-poster bed on top, with a blue silk bedspread, mattresses and lace throws. At the head of the bed we place a bag of selected products. From time to time we stroke hard smoked sausages, cans of liver and canned food, boxes of cigars fill our hearts with jubilation. Each of our team has such a bag with them.

In addition, Kropp and I saved two more red plush chairs. They stand in the bed, and we, lounging, sit on them, as if in a theater box. Like a tent, a silk blanket flutters and swells above us. Everyone has a cigar in their mouth. So we sit, looking at the area from above.

Between us stands the cage in which the parrot lived; we found her for the cat. We took the cat with us, she lies in a cage in front of her bowl and purrs.

Cars roll slowly down the road. We sing. Behind us, where the now completely abandoned village remains, shells throw up fountains of earth.

In a few days we are moving out to take one place. Along the way we meet refugees - evicted residents of this village. They drag their belongings with them - in wheelbarrows, in baby carriages and simply on their backs. They walk with their heads down, grief, despair, persecution and resignation are written on their faces. Children cling to the hands of their mothers, sometimes an older girl leads the kids, and they stumble after her and keep turning back. Some carry some pathetic doll with them. Everyone is silent as they pass us.

For now we are moving in a marching column - after all, the French will not fire at a village from which their fellow countrymen have not yet left. But after a few minutes, a howl is heard in the air, the ground trembles, screams are heard, a shell hit the platoon at the rear of the column, and the fragments thoroughly battered it. We rush in all directions and fall on our faces, but at the same moment I notice that that feeling of tension, which always unconsciously dictated to me the only correct decision under fire, this time betrayed me; The thought flashes through my head like lightning: “You’re lost,” and a disgusting, paralyzing fear stirs within me. Another moment - and I feel a sharp pain in my left leg, like the blow of a whip. I hear Albert scream; he is somewhere near me.

Get up, let's run, Albert! - I yell at him, because he and I are lying without shelter, in the open.

He barely gets off the ground and runs. I stay close to him. We need to jump over the hedge; she is taller than a human. Kropp clings to the branches, I catch his leg, he screams loudly, I push him, he flies over the fence. I jump, I fly after Kropp and fall into the water - there was a pond behind the fence.

Our faces are smeared with mud and mud, but we found good shelter. Therefore, we climb into the water up to our necks. Hearing the howl of a shell, we dive into it headlong.

After doing this ten times, I feel like I can't do it anymore. Albert also moans:

Let's get out of here, otherwise I'll fall and drown.

Where did you end up? - I ask.

It seems to be in the knee.

Can you run?

I guess I can.

Then let's run! We reach a roadside ditch and, bent down, rush along it. The fire is catching up with us. The road leads to the ammunition depot. If it takes off, not even a button will ever be found from us. So we change our plan and run into the field, at an angle to the road.

Albert starts to fall behind.

Run, I’ll catch up,” he says and falls to the ground.

I shake him and drag him by the hand:

Get up. Albert! If you lie down now, you won’t be able to run. Come on, I'll support you!

Finally we reach a small dugout. Kropp flops to the floor and I bandage him. The bullet entered just above the knee. Then I examine myself. There's blood on my pants, and there's blood on my hand too. Albert applies bandages from his bags to the entrance holes. He can no longer move his leg, and we both wonder how it was enough for us to drag ourselves here. This is all, of course, only out of fear - even if our feet were torn off, we would still run away from there. Even if they were on their stumps, they would have run away.

I can still crawl somehow and call a passing cart to pick us up. It is full of wounded. They are accompanied by an orderly, he pushes a syringe into our chest - this is an anti-tetanus vaccination.

In the field hospital we manage to get us put together. We are given thin broth, which we eat with contempt, albeit greedily - we have seen better times, but now we still want to eat.

So, right, let's go home, Albert? - I ask.

“Let’s hope,” he replies. - If only you knew what’s wrong with me.

The pain gets worse. Everything under the bandage is on fire. We drink water endlessly, mug after mug.

Where is my wound? Much above the knee? - asks Kropp.

“At least ten centimeters, Albert,” I answer.

In fact, there are probably three centimeters there.

That’s what I decided,” he says after a while, “if they take away my leg, I’ll call it a day.” I don’t want to hobble around the world on crutches.

So we lie alone with our thoughts and wait.

In the evening we are taken to the “cutting room”. I feel scared, and I quickly figure out what to do, because everyone knows that in field hospitals, doctors amputate arms and legs without hesitation. Now that the infirmaries are so crowded, it’s easier than painstakingly stitching a person back together from pieces. I'm reminded of Kemmerich. I will never allow myself to be chloroformed, even if I have to break someone's head.

So far everything is going well. The doctor is picking at the wound, so my vision gets dark.

There’s no point in pretending,” he scolds, continuing to chop me up.

The instruments sparkle in the bright light, like the teeth of a bloodthirsty beast. The pain is unbearable. Two orderlies hold my hands tightly: I manage to free one, and I’m about to hit the doctor on my glasses, but he notices this in time and jumps away.

Give this guy anesthesia! - he shouts furiously.

I immediately become calm.

Sorry, Mister Doctor, I will be quiet, but just don’t put me to sleep.

“That’s the same,” he creaks and takes up his instruments again.

He's a blond guy with duel scars and nasty gold glasses on his nose. He is at most thirty years old. I see that now he is deliberately torturing me - he is still rummaging in my wound, from time to time looking sideways at me from under his glasses. I grabbed the handrails - I’d rather die, but he wouldn’t hear a sound from me.

The doctor fishes out a fragment and shows it to me. Apparently, he is pleased with my behavior: he carefully puts a splint on me and says:

Tomorrow on the train and home! Then they put me in a plaster cast. Having seen Kropp in the ward, I tell him that the ambulance train will arrive, in all likelihood, tomorrow.

We need to talk to the paramedic so that we can be left together, Albert.

I manage to hand the paramedic two cigars with stickers from my supply and say a few words. He sniffs the cigars and asks:

What else do you have?

A good handful, I say. “And my friend,” I point to Kropp, “will have it too.” Tomorrow we will be happy to hand them over to you from the window of the ambulance train.

He, of course, immediately realizes what’s going on: after sniffing again, he says:

At night we cannot sleep for a minute. Seven people are dying in our ward. One of them sings chorales in a high, strangled tenor for an hour, then the singing turns into a death rattle. The other gets out of bed and manages to crawl to the windowsill. He lies under the window, as if about to look outside for the last time.

Our stretchers are at the station. We are waiting for the train. It's raining and the station has no roof. The blankets are thin. We've been waiting for two hours already.

The paramedic takes care of us like a caring mother. Although I feel very bad, I do not forget about our plan. As if by chance, I pull back the blanket so that the paramedic can see the packs of cigars, and give him one as a deposit. For this he covers us with a raincoat.

Eh, Albert, my friend,” I remember, “do you remember our four-poster bed and the cat?

And chairs,” he adds.

Yes, red plush chairs. In the evenings we sat on them like kings and were already planning to rent them out. One cigarette per hour. We would live without worries, and we would also have benefits.

Albert,” I remember, “and our bags of food...

We feel sad. All this would be very useful to us. If the train left a day later. Kat would surely have found us and brought us our share.

That's bad luck. In our stomachs we have a soup made of flour - meager hospital grub - and in our bags there are canned pork. But we are already so weak that we are not able to worry about this.

The train arrives only in the morning, and by this time the stretcher is squelching with water. The paramedic arranges us into one carriage. Sisters of mercy from the Red Cross are scurrying around everywhere. Kroppa is placed below. They lift me up, I am given a place above him.

Well, wait,” he suddenly bursts out from me.

What's the matter? - asks the sister.

I glance at the bed again. It is covered with snow-white linen sheets, incomprehensibly clean, they even show creases from the iron. And I haven’t changed my shirt for six weeks, it’s black with dirt.

Can't get in yourself? - the sister asks concerned.

“I’ll climb in,” I say, feeling like I’m sobbing, “just take off your underwear first.”

Why? I feel like I'm as dirty as a pig. Will they really put me here?

But I... - I don’t dare finish my thought.

Will you smear him a little? - she asks, trying to cheer me up. - It doesn’t matter, we’ll wash it later.

No, that’s not the point,” I say in excitement.

I am not at all ready for such a sudden return to the fold of civilization.

You were lying in the trenches, so why don’t we wash the sheets for you? - she continues.

I look at her; she is young and looks as fresh, crisp, cleanly washed and pleasant as everything around her, it’s hard to believe that this is not only intended for officers, this makes you feel uneasy and even somehow scary.

And yet this woman is a real executioner: she forces me to speak.

I just thought... - I stop there: she must understand what I mean.

What else is this?

“Yes, I’m talking about lice,” I finally blurt out.

She is laughing:

Someday they too need to live for their own pleasure.

Well, now I don't care. I climb onto the shelf and cover my head.

Someone's fingers are groping around the blanket. This is a paramedic. Having received the cigars, he leaves.

An hour later we notice that we are already on our way.

At night I wake up. Kropp is also tossing and turning. The train rolls quietly along the rails. All this is still somehow incomprehensible: bed, train, home. I whisper:

Albert!

Do you know where the restroom is?

I think it's behind that door on the right.

Let's see.

It’s dark in the carriage, I feel for the edge of the shelf and am about to carefully slide down. But my leg can’t find a foothold, I start to slide off the shelf - I can’t rest on my wounded leg, and I fall to the floor with a crash.

Damn it! - I say.

Are you hurt? - asks Kropp.

But you haven’t heard, have you? - I snap. - I hit my head so hard that...

Here at the end of the carriage a door opens. My sister comes up with a lantern in her hands and sees me.

He fell off the shelf... She feels my pulse and touches my forehead.

But you don't have a temperature.

No, I agree.

Perhaps you were dreaming about something? - she asks.

Yes, probably,” I answer evasively.

And the questions begin again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, so pure and amazing - no, I just can’t tell her what I need.

They take me upstairs again. Wow, settled! After all, when she leaves, I will have to go downstairs again! If she were an old woman, I would probably tell her what was wrong, but she is so young, she can’t be more than twenty-five. There's nothing to be done, I can't tell her this.

Then Albert comes to my aid - he has nothing to be ashamed of, because this is not about him. He calls his sister to him:

Sister, he needs...

But Albert also doesn’t know how to express himself so that it sounds quite decent. At the front, in a conversation among ourselves, one word would be enough for us, but here, in the presence of such a lady... But then he suddenly remembers his school days and finishes smartly:

He should go out, sister.

“Oh, that’s it,” says the sister. - So for this he doesn’t need to get out of bed at all, especially since he’s in a cast. What exactly do you need? - she turns to me.

I am scared to death by this new turn of affairs, as I have not the slightest idea what terminology is adopted to refer to these things.

My sister comes to my aid:

Small or big?

What a shame! I feel like I’m all sweaty, and I say embarrassedly:

Only in small ways.

Well, things didn't end so badly after all.

They give me a duck. A few hours later, several more people follow my example, and by morning we are already accustomed and do not hesitate to ask for what we need.

The train is moving slowly. Sometimes he stops to unload the dead. He stops quite often.

Albert has a fever. I feel tolerable, my leg hurts, but what’s much worse is that there are obviously lice under the cast. My leg itches terribly, but I can’t scratch myself.

Our days pass in slumber. Outside the window the views silently float by. On the third night we arrive in Herbestal. I learn from my sister that Albert will be dropped off at the next stop because he has a fever.

Where will we stay? - I ask.

In Cologne.

Albert, we’ll stay together,” I say, “you’ll see.”

When the nurse makes her next round, I hold my breath and force the air inside. My face is filled with blood and turns purple. The sister stops:

Are you in pain?

Yes,” I say with a groan. - Somehow they suddenly started.

She gives me a thermometer and moves on. Now I know what to do, because it was not in vain that I studied with Kata. These soldier thermometers are not designed for highly experienced soldiers. As soon as you push the mercury up, it will get stuck in its narrow tube and will not come down again.

I put the thermometer under my arm diagonally, with the mercury pointing up, and click on it for a long time with my index finger. Then I shake it and turn it over. It turns out 37.9. But this is not enough. Carefully holding it over a burning match, I bring the temperature up to 38.7.

When my sister returns, I pout like a turkey, try to breathe sharply, look at her with drowsy eyes, toss and turn restlessly and say in a low voice:

Oh, I can’t stand it! She writes my last name on a piece of paper. I know for sure that my plaster cast will not be touched unless absolutely necessary.

I am taken off the train with Albert.

We are lying in the infirmary at a Catholic monastery, in the same ward. We are very lucky: Catholic hospitals are renowned for their good care and delicious food. The infirmary is completely filled with wounded from our train; many of them are in serious condition. Today we are not being examined yet because there are too few doctors here. Every now and then, low rubber carts are wheeled along the corridor, and every time someone lies on them, stretched out to their full height. It's a damn uncomfortable position - it's the only way to sleep well.

The night passes very restlessly. Nobody can sleep. In the morning we manage to doze off for a while. I wake up to the light. The door is open and voices are heard from the corridor. My roommates also wake up. One of them, who has been lying there for several days, explains to us what’s going on:

Up here the sisters say prayers every morning. They call it matins. In order not to deprive us of the pleasure of listening, they open the door to the room.

Of course, this is very thoughtful of them, but all our bones hurt and our heads are cracking.

What a disgrace! - I say. - I just managed to fall asleep.

“There are people up here with minor injuries, so they decided that they could do this with us,” my neighbor answers.

Albert groans. I'm filled with anger and I scream:

Hey you there, shut up! A minute later, a sister appears in the room. In her black and white monastic robe, she resembles a pretty coffee pot doll.

“Close the door, sister,” someone says.

“The door is open because they are saying a prayer in the corridor,” she answers.

And we haven't gotten enough sleep yet.

It's better to pray than to sleep. - She stands and smiles an innocent smile. - Besides, it’s already seven o’clock.

Albert moaned again.

Close the door! - I bark.

The sister was taken aback; apparently, she couldn’t wrap her head around how someone could scream like that.

We are praying for you too.

Anyway, close the door! She disappears, leaving the door unlocked. Monotonous muttering is heard again in the corridor. This pisses me off and I say:

I count to three. If they don't stop by this time, I'll throw something at them.

“Me too,” says one of the wounded.

I count to five. Then I take an empty bottle, take aim and throw it through the door into the corridor. The bottle shatters into small fragments. The voices of those praying fall silent. A flock of sisters appears in the ward. They swear, but in very measured terms.

Close the door! - we shout.

They are removed. The little one who came to see us just now is the last to leave.

Atheists,” she babbles, but still closes the door.

We won.

At noon the head of the infirmary comes and gives us a beating. He threatens us with strength and even something worse. But all these military doctors, just like the quartermasters, are still nothing more than officials, even though they wear a long sword and epaulettes, and therefore even recruits do not take them seriously. Let him talk to himself. He won't do anything to us.

Who threw the bottle? - he asks.

I haven’t yet had time to figure out whether I should confess, when suddenly someone says:

I! A man with a thick, tangled beard sits up on one of the beds. Everyone is eager to know why he named himself.

Yes sir. I became agitated because we had been woken up for no reason, and I lost control of myself, so much so that I no longer knew what I was doing. He speaks as if it were written.

What is your last name?

Joseph Hamacher, called up from reserve.

The inspector leaves.

We are all filled with curiosity.

Why did you give your last name? After all, it wasn’t you who did it!

He grins:

So what if it’s not me? I have "absolution of sins."

Now everyone understands what's going on here. Anyone who has "remission of sins" can do whatever he pleases.

So,” he says, “I was wounded in the head, and after that I was given a certificate stating that at times I am insane. Since then I don't care. I can't be annoyed. So they won't do anything to me. This guy from the first floor will be very angry. And I named myself because I liked the way they threw the bottle. If they open the door again tomorrow, we'll throw another one.

We rejoice noisily. As long as Joseph Hamacher is among us, we can do the most risky things.

Then silent strollers come for us.

The bandages have dried. We moo like bulls.

There are eight people in our room. The most serious wound is that of Peter, a dark-haired, curly-haired boy - he has a complex perforating wound in his lungs. His neighbor Franz Wächter has a shattered forearm, and at first it seems to us that his affairs are not so bad. But on the third night he calls out to us and asks us to call - it seems to him that blood has come through the bandages.

I press the button hard. The night nurse doesn't come. In the evening we made her run - we all got a bandage, and after that the wounds always hurt. One asked to put his leg this way, another - that way, the third was thirsty, the fourth needed to fluff his pillow - in the end the fat old woman began to grumble angrily, and slammed the door as she left. Now she probably thinks that everything is starting all over again, and that’s why she doesn’t want to go.

We are waiting. Franz then says:

Call again! I'm calling. The nurse still doesn't show up. At night, there is only one sister left in our entire wing; perhaps she has just been called to other wards.

Franz, are you sure you're bleeding? - I ask. - Otherwise they will scold us again.

The bandages are wet. Can someone please turn on the light?

But nothing works with the light either: the switch is by the door, but no one can get up. I press the call button until my finger goes numb. Perhaps my sister dozed off? After all, they have so much work, they already look so overtired during the day. Besides, they pray every now and then.

Should we throw the bottle? - asks Joseph Hamacher, a man to whom everything is permitted.

Since she doesn’t hear the bell, she certainly won’t hear this.

Finally the door opens. A sleepy old woman appears on the threshold. Seeing what happened to Franz, she begins to fuss and exclaims:

Why didn't anyone let anyone know about this?

We called. And none of us can walk.

He was bleeding heavily and is being bandaged again. In the morning we see his face: it has turned yellow and sharpened, but just yesterday evening he looked almost completely healthy. Now my sister began to visit us more often.

Sometimes sisters from the Red Cross look after us. They are kind, but sometimes they lack skill. When transferring us from the stretcher to the bed, they often hurt us, and then they get so scared that it makes us feel even worse.

We trust nuns more. They know how to deftly pick up a wounded person, but we wish they were a little more cheerful. However, some of them have a sense of humor, and these are really great guys. Which of us would not, for example, render any service to Sister Libertina? As soon as we see this amazing woman, even from afar, the mood in the entire outbuilding immediately rises. And there are many of them here. We are ready to go through fire and water for them. No, there is no need to complain - the nuns treat us just like civilians. And when you remember what is happening in the garrison hospitals, it just becomes scary.

Franz Wächter never recovered. One day they take it away and never bring it back. Joseph Hamacher explains:

Now we won't see him. They carried him to the death room.

What kind of dead thing is this? - asks Kropp.

Well, death row.

What is this?

This is a little room at the end of the wing. Those who were going to stretch their legs are placed there. There are two beds there. Everyone calls her dead.

But why do they do this?

And they have less fuss. Then it’s more convenient - the room is located right next to the elevator that takes you to the morgue. Or maybe this is being done so that no one dies in the wards, in front of others. And it’s easier to look after him when he’s lying alone.

And what is it like for him himself?

Joseph shrugs.

So, whoever gets there usually doesn’t really understand what they’re doing to him.

So, does everyone here know this?

Those who have been here for a long time, of course, know.

After lunch, a new arrival is placed on Franz Wächter's bed. A few days later he too is taken away. Joseph makes an expressive gesture with his hand. He is not the last; many more come and go before our eyes.

Sometimes relatives sit by the beds; they cry or talk quietly, embarrassed. One old woman doesn’t want to leave, but she can’t stay here overnight. The next morning she comes very early, but she should have come even earlier - approaching the bed, she sees that the other one is already lying on it. She is invited to go to the morgue. She brought apples with her and now gives them to us.

Little Peter also feels worse. His temperature curve climbs alarmingly upward, and one fine day a low stroller stops at his bed.

Where? - he asks.

To the dressing room.

They lift him onto a wheelchair. But the sister makes a mistake: she takes his soldier’s jacket off the hook and puts it next to him so as not to go back for it again. Peter immediately realizes what’s going on and tries to roll out of the stroller:

I'm staying here! They don't let him get up. He shouts softly with his perforated lungs:

I don’t want to go to the dead!

Yes, we are taking you to the dressing room.

What do you need my jacket for then? He is no longer able to speak. He whispers in a hoarse, excited whisper:

Leave me here! They don’t answer and take him out of the room. At the door he tries to get up. His black curly head is shaking, his eyes are full of tears.

I'll be back! I'll be back! - he shouts.

The door closes. We are all excited, but we are silent. Finally Joseph says:

We are not the first to hear this. But whoever gets there will never survive.

I have surgery and after that I vomit for two days. My doctor's clerk says that my bones don't want to heal. In one of our departments, they grew together incorrectly, and they broke them again for him. This is also a small pleasure. Among the new arrivals are two young soldiers suffering from flat feet. During their rounds, they catch the eye of the chief doctor, who happily stops near their beds.

We will save you from this,” he says. - A small operation and you will have healthy legs. Sister, write them down.

As he leaves, the all-knowing Joseph warns newcomers:

Look, don't agree to the operation! This, you see, our old man has such a thing for science. He even dreams about how to get someone for this job. He will perform an operation on you, and after this your foot will indeed no longer be flat; but it will be crooked, and you will hobble around with a stick until the end of your days.

What should we do now? - asks one of them.

Don't give consent! You were sent here to treat wounds, not to cure flat feet! What kind of legs did you have at the front? Ah, that's it! Now you can still walk, but if you go under the knife of an old man, you will become crippled. He needs guinea pigs, so for him war is the most wonderful time, as for all doctors. Take a look at the lower department - there are a good dozen people crawling around there whom he operated on. Some have been sitting here for years, from the fifteenth and even the fourteenth year. None of them began to walk better than before; on the contrary, almost all of them walked worse; most of them had legs in plaster. Every six months he drags them back onto the table and breaks their bones in a new way, and each time he tells them that success is now assured. Think carefully, he has no right to do this without your consent.

“Eh, buddy,” says one of them tiredly, “better legs than head.” Can you tell me in advance which place you will get when they send you there again? Let them do whatever they want to me, as long as I get home. It's better to hobble and stay alive.

His friend, a young guy our age, does not give consent. The next morning the old man orders them to be brought down; there he begins to persuade them and shouts at them, so that in the end they finally agree. What can they do? After all, they are just a gray beast, and he is a big shot. They are brought into the ward under chloroform and in plaster.

Albert is doing poorly. He is carried to the operating room for amputation. The entire leg is taken away, all the way to the top. Now he has almost completely stopped talking. One day he says that he is going to shoot himself, that he will do it as soon as he gets his hands on his revolver.

A new train with wounded arrives. Two blind people are admitted to our ward. One of them is still a very young musician. When serving him dinner, the sisters always hide their knives from him; he had already snatched the knife out of the hands of one of them. Despite these precautions, trouble befell him.

In the evening, at dinner, his serving sister is called out of the room for a minute, and she places a plate and fork on his table. He grops for a fork, takes it in his hand and plunges it into his heart with a flourish, then grabs his shoe and hits the handle with all his might. We are calling for help, but we can’t handle him alone; we need three people to take the fork away from him. The blunt teeth managed to penetrate quite deeply. He scolds us all night, so no one can sleep. In the morning he begins to have a fit of hysteria.

Our beds are freeing up. Days go by days, and each of them is pain and fear, groans and wheezing. “The dead” are no longer needed, there are too few of them - at night people die in the wards, including ours. Death overtakes the wise foresight of our sisters.

But then one fine day the door swings open, a carriage appears on the threshold, and on it - pale, thin - sits Peter, victoriously raising his black curly head. Sister Libertina, with a beaming face, rolls him to his old bed. He returned from the "dead room". And we have long believed that he died.

He looks in all directions:

Well, what do you say to that?

And even Joseph Hamacher is forced to admit that he has never seen anything like this before.

After a while, some of us get permission to get out of bed. They also give me crutches, and little by little I begin to hobble. However, I rarely use them, I can’t stand the look Albert stares at me as I walk across the ward. He always looks at me with such strange eyes. Therefore, from time to time I escape into the corridor - there I feel freer.

On the floor below there are those wounded in the stomach, spine, head and with amputation of both arms or legs. In the right wing are people with crushed jaws, poisoned by gas, wounded in the nose, ears and throat. The left wing is given to the blind and wounded to the lungs, pelvis, joints, kidneys, scrotum, and stomach. Only here you can clearly see how vulnerable the human body is.

Two of the wounded die from tetanus. Their skin turns gray, their body becomes numb, and in the end life glimmers - for a very long time - in only their eyes. Some have a broken arm or leg tied with a cord and hanging in the air, as if suspended from a gallows. Others have guy wires attached to the headboard with heavy weights at the end that hold the healing arm or leg in a tense position. I see people with their intestines torn open and feces constantly accumulating in them. The clerk shows me x-rays of hip, knee and shoulder joints, crushed into small fragments.

It seems incomprehensible that human faces, still living ordinary, everyday lives, are attached to these tattered bodies. But this is only one infirmary, only one department! There are hundreds of thousands of them in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How meaningless is everything that is written, done and thought about by people, if such things are possible in the world! To what extent is our thousand-year-old civilization deceitful and worthless if it could not even prevent these flows of blood, if it allowed hundreds of thousands of such dungeons to exist in the world. Only in the infirmary do you see with your own eyes what war is.

I am young - I am twenty years old, but all I have seen in life is despair, death, fear and the interweaving of the most absurd thoughtless vegetation with immeasurable torment. I see that someone is setting one nation against another and people are killing each other, in a mad blindness submitting to someone else’s will, not knowing what they are doing, not knowing their guilt. I see that the best minds of mankind are inventing weapons to prolong this nightmare, and finding words to justify it even more subtly. And together with me, all people of my age see this, here and here, all over the world, our entire generation is experiencing this. What will our fathers say if we ever rise from our graves and stand before them and demand an account? What can they expect from us if we live to see the day when there is no war? For many years we were engaged in killing. This was our calling, the first calling in our lives. All we know about life is death. What will happen next? And what will become of us?

The oldest in our ward is Levandovsky. He is forty years old; he has a serious wound in the stomach and has been in the hospital for ten months. Only in recent weeks has he recovered enough to be able to stand up and, arching his lower back, hobble a few steps.

He has been very agitated for several days now. A letter came from his wife from a provincial Polish town, in which she writes that she has saved money for the trip and can now visit him.

She has already left and should arrive here any day now. Lewandowski has lost his appetite, he even gives sausages and cabbage to his comrades, barely touching his portion. All he knows is that he is walking around the ward with a letter; each of us has read it ten times already, the stamps on the envelope have been checked an infinite number of times, it is all stained with grease and is so covered that the letters are almost invisible, and finally what should have been expected happens - Lewandowski’s temperature rises and he I have to go to bed again.

He hasn't seen his wife for two years. During this time she gave birth to his child; she will bring it with her. But Lewandowski’s thoughts are not occupied with this at all. He hoped that by the time his old woman arrived he would be allowed to go out into the city - after all, it is clear to everyone that it is, of course, pleasant to look at his wife, but if a person has been separated from her for so long, he wants to satisfy, if possible, some other desires.

Lewandowski discussed this issue with each of us for a long time - after all, the soldiers have no secrets on this matter. Those of us who are already being released into the city named him several excellent corners in gardens and parks, where no one would bother him, and one even had a small room in mind.

But what's the point of all this? Lewandowski lies in bed, besieged by worries. Now life is not pleasant to him either - he is so tormented by the thought that he will have to miss this opportunity. We console him and promise that we will try to pull this off somehow.

The next day his wife appears, a small, dry woman with timid, fast-moving bird eyes, wearing a black mantilla with ruffles and ribbons. God knows where she dug this one up; she must have inherited it.

The woman mutters something quietly and timidly stops in the doorway. She was afraid that there were six of us here.

Well, Marya,” says Levandovsky, moving his Adam’s apple with a distressed look, “come in, don’t be afraid, they won’t do anything to you.”

Levandovskaya goes around the beds and shakes hands with each of us, then shows the baby, who in the meantime has managed to soil his diapers. She brought with her a large beaded bag; Taking out a clean piece of flannel, she quickly swaddles the baby. This helps her overcome her initial embarrassment and she begins to talk to her husband.

He is nervous, every now and then glancing at us with his round, bulging eyes, and he looks most unhappy.

The time is right now - the doctor has already made his rounds; in the worst case, a nurse could look into the room. Therefore, one of us goes out into the corridor to find out the situation. Soon he returns and makes a sign:

There is nothing at all. Go ahead, Johann! Tell her what's wrong and take action.

They are talking to each other about something in Polish. Our guest looks at us embarrassedly, she blushed a little. We grin good-naturedly and energetically wave it off, “Well, what’s wrong with this!” Damn all prejudices! They are good for other times. Here lies the carpenter Johann Lewandowski, a soldier crippled in the war, and here is his wife. Who knows, when he meets her again, he wants to possess her, let his wish come true, and be done with it!

In case any sister does appear in the corridor, we post two people at the door to intercept her and engage her in conversation. They promise to keep watch for a quarter of an hour.

Lewandowski can only lie on his side. So one of us places a few more pillows behind his back. The baby is handed to Albert, then we turn away for a moment, the black mantilla disappears under the blanket, and we cut ourselves into a stingray with loud knocks and jokes.

Everything goes well. I only collected some crosses, and even then it was a trifle, but by some miracle I managed to get out. Because of this, we almost completely forgot about Lewandowski. After a while, the baby begins to cry, although Albert rocks him in his arms with all his might. Then a quiet rustling and rustling is heard, and when we casually raise our heads, we see that the child is already sucking his horn on his mother’s lap. It is done.

Now we feel like one big family; Levandovsky's wife became completely cheerful, and Levandovsky himself, sweating and happy, lies in his bed and is completely beaming.

He unpacks the embroidered bag. It contains some excellent sausages. Lewandowski takes a knife, solemnly, as if it were a bouquet of flowers, and cuts them into pieces. He gestures broadly at us, and a small, dry woman comes up to each of us, smiles and divides the sausage between us. Now she seems downright pretty. We call her mom, and she is happy about it and fluffs our pillows.

After a few weeks, I start going to physical therapy exercises every day. They strap my foot to the pedal and give it a warm-up. The hand has long since healed.

New trains of wounded are arriving from the front. The bandages are now not made of gauze, but of white corrugated paper - the dressing material at the front has become tight.

Albert's stump is healing well. The wound is almost closed. In a few weeks he will be discharged for prosthetics. He still doesn't talk much and is much more serious than before. Often he falls silent mid-sentence and looks at one point. If it weren't for us, he would have committed suicide long ago. But now the most difficult time is behind him. Sometimes he even watches us play scat.

After discharge I am given leave.

My mother doesn't want to leave me. She's so weak. It's even harder for me than last time.

Then a call comes from the regiment, and I go to the front again.

It's hard for me to say goodbye to my friend Albert Kropp. But such is the lot of a soldier - over time he gets used to this too.