If our fellows make a counter-raid I will be saved.
I press my head against the earth and listen to the muffled thunder, like the explosions of quarrying—and raise it again to listen for the sounds on top.
The machine-guns rattle.
I know our barbed wire entanglements are strong and almost undamaged;—parts of them are charged with a powerful electric current.
The rifle fire increases.
They have not broken through; they have to retreat.
I sink down again, huddled, strained to the uttermost.
The banging, the creeping, the clanging becomes audible.
One single cry yelling amongst it all.
They are raked with fire, the attack is repulsed.
Already it has become somewhat lighter.
Steps hasten over me.
The first.
Gone.
Again, another.
The rattle of machine-guns becomes an unbroken chain.
Just as I am about to turn round a little, something heavy stumbles, and with a crash a body falls over me into the shell-hole, slips down, and lies across me
I do not think at all, I make no decision—I strike madly home, and feel only how the body suddenly convulses, then becomes limp, and collapses.
When I recover myself, my hand is sticky and wet.
The man gurgles.
It sounds to me as though he bellows, every gasping breath is like a cry, a thunder—but it is only my heart pounding.
I want to stop his mouth, stuff it with earth, stab him again, he must be quiet, he is betraying me; now at last I regain control of myself, but have suddenly become so feeble that I cannot any more lift my hand against him.
So I crawl away to the farthest corner and stay there, my eyes glued on him, my hand grasping the knife—ready, if he stirs, to spring at him again.
But he won't do so any more, I can hear that already in his gurgling.
I can see him indistinctly.
I have but one desire, to get away.
If it is not soon it will be too light; it will be difficult enough now.
Then as I try to raise up my head I see it is impossible already.
The machine-gunfire so sweeps the ground that I should be shot through and through before I could make one jump.
I test it once with my helmet, which I take off and hold up to find out the level of the shots.
The next moment it is knocked out of my hand by a bullet.
The fire is sweeping very low to the ground.
I am not far enough from the enemy line to escape being picked off by one of the snipers if I attempt to get away.
The light increases.
Burning I wait for our attack.
My hands are white at the knuckles, I clench them so tightly in my longing for the fire to cease so that my comrades may come.
Minute after minute trickles away.
I dare not look again at the dark figure in the shell-hole.
With an effort I look past it and wait, wait. The bullets hiss, they make a steel net, never ceasing, never ceasing.
Then I notice my bloody hand and suddenly feel nauseated.
I take some earth and rub the skin with it; now my hand is muddy and the blood cannot be seen any more.
The fire does not diminish.
It is equally heavy from both sides.
Our fellows have probably given me up for lost long ago.
It is early morning, clear and grey.
The gurgling continues, I stop my ears, but soon take my fingers away again, because then I cannot hear the other sound.
The figure opposite me moves.
I shrink together and involuntarily look at it.
Then my eyes remain glued to it.
A man with a small pointed beard lies there; his head is fallen to one side, one arm is half-bent, his head rests helplessly upon it.