The other hand lies on his chest, it is bloody.
He is dead, I say to myself, he must be dead, he doesn't feel anything any more; it is only the body that is gurgling there.
Then the head tries to raise itself, for a moment the groaning becomes louder, his forehead sinks back upon his arm.
The man is not dead, he is dying, but he is not dead.
I drag myself toward him, hesitate, support myself on my hands, creep a bit farther, wait, again a terrible journey of three yards, a long, a terrible journey.
At last I am beside him.
Then he opens his eyes.
He must have heard me, for he gazes at me with a look of utter terror.
The body lies still, but in the eyes there is such an extraordinary expression of fright that for a moment I think they have power enough to carry the body off with them.
Hundreds of miles away with one bound.
The body is still perfectly still, without a sound, the gurgle has ceased, but the eyes cry out, yell, all the life is gathered together in them for one tremendous effort to flee, gathered together there in a dreadful terror of death, of me.
My legs give way and I drop on my elbows.
"No, no," I whisper.
The eyes follow me.
I am powerless to move so long as they are there.
Then his hand slips slowly from his breast, only a little bit, it sinks just a few inches, but this movement breaks the power of the eyes.
I bend forward, shake my head and whisper:
"No, no, no," I raise one hand, I must show him that I want to help him, I stroke his forehead.
The eyes shrink back as the hand comes, then they lose their stare, the eyelids droop lower, the tension is past.
I open his collar and place his head more comfortably.
His mouth stands half open, it tries to form words.
The lips are dry.
My water bottle is not there. I have not brought it with me.
But there is water in the mud, down at the bottom of the crater.
I climb down, take out my handkerchief, spread it out, push it under and scoop up the yellow water that strains through into the hollow of my hand.
He gulps it down.
I fetch some more.
Then I unbutton his tunic in order to bandage him if it is possible.
In any case I must do it, so that if the fellows over there capture me they will see that I wanted to help him, and so will not shoot me.
He tries to resist, but his hand is too feeble.
The shirt is stuck and will not come away, it is buttoned at the back.
So there is nothing for it but to cut it open.
I look for the knife and find it again.
But when I begin to cut the shirt the eyes open once more and the cry is in them again and the demented expression, so that I must close them, press them shut and whisper:
"I want to help you, Comrade, camerade, camerade, camerade–––" eagerly repeating the word, to make him understand.
There are three stabs.
My field dressing covers them, the blood runs out under it, I press it tighter; there; he groans.
That is all I can do.
Now we must wait, wait.
These hours. . . .
The gurgling starts again—but how slowly a man dies!
For this I know—he cannot be saved, I have, indeed, tried to tell myself that he will be, but at noon this pretence breaks down and melts before his groans.
If only I had not lost my revolver crawling about, I would shoot him.
Stab him I cannot.
By noon I am groping on the outer limits of reason.
Hunger devours me, I could almost weep for something to eat, I cannot struggle against it.
Again and again I fetch water for the dying man and drink some myself.
This is the first time I have killed with my hands, whom I can see close at hand, whose death is my doing.
Kat and Kropp and Muller have experienced it already, when they have hit someone; it happens to many, in hand-to-hand fighting especially—
But every gasp lays my heart bare.