They listen, they are docile—but when it begins again, in their excitement they do everything wrong.
Haie Westhus drags off with a great wound in his back through which the lung pulses at every breath.
I can only press his hand;
"It's all up, Paul," he groans and he bites his arm because of the pain.
We see men living with their skulls blown open; we see soldiers run with their two feet cut off, they stagger on their splintered stumps into the next shell-hole; a lance-corporal crawls a mile and a half on his hands dragging his smashed knee after him; another goes to the dressing station and over his clasped hands bulge his intestines; we see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces; we find one man who has held the artery of his arm in his teeth for two hours in order not to bleed to death. The sun goes down, night comes, the shells whine, life is at an end.
Still the little piece of convulsed earth in which we lie is held. We have yielded no more than a few hundred yards of it as a prize to the enemy.
But on every yard there lies a dead man.
We have just been relieved.
The wheels roll beneath us, we stand dully, and when the call "Mind —wire" comes, we bend our knees.
It was summer when we came up, the trees were still green, now it is autumn and the night is grey and wet.
The lorries stop, we climb out—a confused heap, a remnant of many names.
On either side stand people, dark, calling out the numbers of the brigades, the battalions.
And at each call a little group separates itself off, a small handful of dirty, pallid soldiers, a dreadfully small handful, and a dreadfully small remnant.
Now someone is calling the number of our company, it is, yes, the Company Commander, he has come through, then; his arm is in a sling.
We go over to him and I recognize Kat and Albert, we stand together, lean against each other, and look at one another.
And we hear the number of our company called again and again.
He will call a long time, they do not hear him in the hospitals and shell-holes.
Once again:
"Second Company, this way!"
And then more softly:
"Nobody else, Second Company?"
He is silent, and then huskily he says:
"Is that all?" and gives the order:
"Number!"
The morning is grey, it was still summer when we came up, and we were one hundred and fifty strong.
Now we freeze, it is autumn, the leaves rustle, the voices flutter out wearily:
"One—two—three—four–––" and cease at thirty-two.
And there is a long silence before the voice asks:
"Anyone else?"—and waits and then says softly:
"In squads–––" and then breaks off and is only able to finish: "Second Company–––" with difficulty:
"Second Company—march easy!"
A line, a short line trudges off into the morning.
Thirty-two men.
SEVEN
They have taken us farther back than usual to a field depot so that we can be re-organized.
Our company needs more than a hundred reinforcements.
In the meantime, when we are off duty, we loaf around.
After a couple of days Himmelstoss comes up to us.
He has had the bounce knocked out of him since he has been in the trenches and wants to get on good terms with us.
I am willing, because I saw how he brought Haie Westhus in when he was hit in the back.
Besides he's decent enough to treat us in the canteen when we are out of funds.
Only Tjaden is still reserved and suspicious.
But he is won over, too, when Himmelstoss tells us that he is taking the place of the sergeant-cook who has gone on leave.
As a proof he produces on the spot two pounds of sugar for us and a half-pound of butter specially for Tjaden.
He even sees to it that we are detailed the next two or three days to the cook-house for potato and turnip peeling.
The grub he gives us there is real officers' fare.
Thus momentarily we have the two things a soldier needs for contentment: good food and rest.
That's not much when one comes to think of it.
A few years ago we would have despised ourselves terribly.
But now we are almost happy.