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Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
Tags: Fiction
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Which he caps with: "What is meant by Cohesion?"
We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood-nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs.
Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use? We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again."
I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam."
"That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil."
"It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you."
Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?"
"Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself.
Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?"-he makes a gesture toward the front.
"What we'll want is a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea.
"But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled.
Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out."
We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask.
"I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back."
"When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace-time,' it goes to my head: and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing-something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on-it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything at all, Albert."
All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless.
Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs-a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock."
We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation.
Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything."
He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war.
■■
The Orderly Room shows signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. At the head of the column trots the fat sergeant-major. It is queer that almost all of the regular sergeant-majors are fat.
Himmelstoss follows him, thirsting for vengeance. His boots gleam in the sun.
We get up.
"Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant puffs.
No one knows, of course. Himmelstoss glowers at us wrathfully. "You know very well. You won't say, that's the fact of the matter. Out with it!"
Fatty looks round enquiringly; but Tjaden is not to be seen. He tries another way.
"Tjaden will report at the Orderly Room in ten minutes."
Then he steams off with Himmelstoss in his wake.
"I have a feeling that next time we go up wiring I'll be
Which he caps with: "What is meant by Cohesion?"
We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood-nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs.
Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use? We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again."
I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam."
"That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil."
"It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you."
Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?"
"Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself.
Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?"-he makes a gesture toward the front.
"What we'll want is a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea.
"But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled.
Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out."
We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask.
"I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back."
"When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace-time,' it goes to my head: and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing-something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on-it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything at all, Albert."
All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless.
Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs-a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock."
We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation.
Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything."
He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war.
■■
The Orderly Room shows signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. At the head of the column trots the fat sergeant-major. It is queer that almost all of the regular sergeant-majors are fat.
Himmelstoss follows him, thirsting for vengeance. His boots gleam in the sun.
We get up.
"Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant puffs.
No one knows, of course. Himmelstoss glowers at us wrathfully. "You know very well. You won't say, that's the fact of the matter. Out with it!"
Fatty looks round enquiringly; but Tjaden is not to be seen. He tries another way.
"Tjaden will report at the Orderly Room in ten minutes."
Then he steams off with Himmelstoss in his wake.
"I have a feeling that next time we go up wiring I'll be
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