It is all a matter of habit—even the frontline.
Habit is the explanation of why we seem to forget things so quickly.
Yesterday we were under fire, to-day we act the fool and go foraging through the countryside, to-morrow we go up to the trenches again.
We forget nothing really.
But so long as we have to stay here in the field, the front-line days, when they are past, sink down in us like a stone; they are too grievous for us to be able to reflect on them at once.
If we did that, we should have been destroyed long ago. I soon found out this much:—terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks;—but it kills, if a man thinks about it.
Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line, because that is the only thing which brings us through safely, so we turn into wags and loafers when we are resting.
We can do nothing else, it is a sheer necessity.
We want to live at any price; so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they might be ornamental enough in peacetime, would be out of place here.
Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying, they will have a job with Hans Kramer's body at the Judgment Day, piecing it together after a direct hit; Martens has no legs any more, Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead, there are a hundred and twenty wounded men lying somewhere or other; it is a damnable business, but what has it to do with us now—we live.
If it were possible for us to save them, then it would be seen how much we cared— we would have a shot at it though we went under ourselves; for we can be damned quixotic when we like; fear we do not know much about— terror of death, yes; but that is a different matter, that is physical.
But our comrades are dead, we cannot help them, they have their rest—and who knows what is waiting for us?
We will make ourselves comfortable and sleep, and eat as much as we can stuff into our bellies, and drink and smoke so that hours are not wasted.
Life is short.
The terror of the front sinks deep down when we turn our backs upon it; we make grim, coarse jests about it, when a man dies, then we say he has nipped off his turd, and so we speak of everything; that keeps us from going mad; as long as we take it that way we maintain our own resistance.
But we do not forget.
It's all rot that they put in the war-news about the good humour of the troops, how they are arranging dances almost before they are out of the front-line.
We don't like that because we are in a good humour: we are in a good humour because otherwise we should go to pieces.
Even so we cannot hold out much longer; our humour becomes more bitter every month.
And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again, and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.
The days, the weeks, the years out here shall come back again, and our dead comrades shall then stand up again and march with us, our heads shall be clear, we shall have a purpose, and so we shall march, our dead comrades beside us, the years at the Front behind us: — against whom, against whom?
Some time ago there was an army theatre in these parts.
Coloured posters of the performances are still sticking on a hoarding.
With wide eyes Kropp and I stand in front of it.
We can hardly credit that such things still exist, A girl in a light summer dress, with a red patent-leather belt about her hips!
She is standing with one hand on a railing and with the other she holds a straw hat.
She wears white stockings and white shoes, fine buckle shoes with high heels.
Behind her smiles the blue sea with white-horses, at the side is a bright bay.
She is a lovely girl with a delicate nose, red lips, and slender legs, wonderfully clean and well cared for, she certainly baths twice a day and never has any dirt under her nails.
At most perhaps a bit of sand from the beach.
Beside her stands a man in white trousers, a blue jacket, and sailor's cap; but he interests us much less.
The girl on the poster is a wonder to us.
We have quite forgotten that there are such things, and even now we hardly believe our eyes.
We have seen nothing like it for years, nothing like it for happiness, beauty and joy.
That is peace-time, that is as it should be; we feel excited.
"Just look at those thin shoes though, she couldn't march many miles in those," I say, and then begin to feel silly, for it is absurd to stand in front of a picture like this and think of nothing but marching.
"How old would she be?" Kropp asks.
"About twenty-two at the most," I hazard.
"Then she would be older than us!
She is not more then seventeen, let me tell you!"
It gives us goose flesh.
"That would be good, Albert, what do you think?"
He nods.
"I have some white trousers at home too."
"White trousers," say I, "but a girl like that–––"
We look askance at one another.
There's not much to boast of here— two ragged, stained, and dirty uniforms.
It is hopeless to compete.
So we proceed to tear the young man with the white trousers off the hoarding, taking care not to damage the girl.
That is something toward it.