We arrive once again at our shattered trench and pass on beyond it.
Oh, this turning back again!
We reach the shelter of the reserves and yearn to creep in and disappear;—but instead we must turn round and plunge again into the horror.
If we were not automata at that moment we would continue lying there, exhausted, and without will.
But we are swept forward again, powerless, madly savage and raging; we will kill, for they are still our mortal enemies, their rifles and bombs are aimed against us, and if we don't destroy them, they will destroy us.
The brown earth, the torn, blasted earth, with a greasy shine under the sun's rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons, our gasping is the scratching of a quill, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor—thus we stagger forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulsed and dead soldiers, who lie there–it can't be helped—who cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them.
We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our glance lights on the form of some other man.
We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic, are still able to run and to kill.
A young Frenchman lags behind, he is overtaken, he puts up his hands, in one he still holds his revolver—does he mean to shoot or to give himself!—a blow from a spade cleaves through his face.
A second sees it and tries to run farther; a bayonet jabs into his back.
He leaps in the air, his arms thrown wide, his mouth wide open, yelling; he staggers, in his back the bayonet quivers.
A third throws away his rifle, cowers down with his hands before his eyes.
He is left behind with a few other prisoners to carry off the wounded.
Suddenly in the pursuit we reach the enemy line.
We are so close on the heels of our retreating enemies that we reach it almost at the same time as they.
In this way we suffer few casualties.
A machine-gun barks, but is silenced with a bomb.
Nevertheless, the couple of seconds has sufficed to give us five stomach wounds.
With the butt of his rifle Kat smashes to pulp the face of one of the unwounded machine-gunners.
We bayonet the others before they have time to get out their bombs.
Then thirstily we drink the water they have for cooling the gun.
Everywhere wire-cutters are snapping, planks are thrown across the entanglements, we jump through the narrow entrances into the trenches.
Haie strikes his spade into the neck of a gigantic Frenchman and throws the first hand-grenade; we duck behind a breastwork for a few seconds, then the straight bit of trench ahead of us is empty.
The next throw whizzes obliquely over the corner and clears a passage; as we run past we toss handfuls down into the dug-outs, the earth shudders, it crashes, smokes and groans, we stumble over slippery lumps of flesh, over yielding bodies; I fall into an open belly on which lies a clean, new officer's cap.
The fight ceases. We lose touch with the enemy.
We cannot stay here long but must retire under cover of our artillery to our own position. No sooner do we know this than we dive into the nearest dug-outs, and with the utmost haste seize on whatever provisions we can see, especially the tins of corned beef and butter, before we clear out.
We get back pretty well.
There is no further attack by the enemy.
We lie for an hour panting and resting before anyone speaks.
We are so completely played out that in spite of our great hunger we do not think of the provisions.
Then gradually we become something like men again.
The corned beef over there is famous along the whole front.
Occasionally it has been the chief reason for a flying raid on our part, for our nourishment is generally very bad; we have a constant hunger.
We bagged five tins altogether.
The fellows over there are well looked after; they fare magnificently, as against us, poor starving wretches, with our turnip jam; they can get all the meat they want.
Haie has scored a thin loaf of white French bread, and stuck it in behind his belt like a spade.
It is a bit bloody at one corner, but that can be cut off.
It is a good thing we have something decent to eat at last; we still have a use for all our strength.
Enough to eat is just as valuable as a good dugout; it can save our lives; that is the reason we are so greedy for it.
Tjaden has captured two water-bottles full of cognac.
We pass them round.
The evening benediction begins.
Night comes, out of the craters rise the mists. It looks as though the holes were full of ghostly secrets.
The white vapour creeps painfully round before it ventures to steal away over the edge.
Then long streaks stretch from crater to crater.
It is chilly.
I am on sentry and stare into the darkness.
My strength is exhausted as always after an attack, and so it is hard for me to be alone with my thoughts.
They are not properly thoughts; they are memories which in my weakness haunt me and strangely move me.
The parachute-lights soar upwards—and I see a picture, a summer evening, I am in the cathedral cloister and look at the tall rose trees that bloom in the middle of the little cloister garden where the monks lie buried.