When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power.
The darkness grows.
My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up.
Then I crawl out of the shell-hole.
I have forgotten the dead man.
Before me lies the oncoming night and the pale gleaming field.
I fix my eyes on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward.
I come nearer.
There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and I lie still.
Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench.
But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets.
Then I call.
And immediately an answer rings out, my name:
"Paul—Paul–––"
I call again in answer.
It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me.
"Are you wounded?"
"No, no–––"
We drop into the trench.
I ask for something to eat and wolf it down.
Muller gives me a cigarette.
In a few words I tell what happened.
There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often.
The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business.
In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back.
I do not mention the dead printer.
But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer.
I must tell Kat and Albert.
They both try to calm me.
"You can't do anything about it.
What else could you have done?
That is what you are here for."
I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence.
It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole.
"Look there for instance," points Kat.
On the fire-step stand some snipers.
They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front.
Once and again a shot cracks out.
Then we hear the cry:
"That's found a billet!"
"Did you see how he leapt in the air?"
Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point.
He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits.
"What do you say to that?" asks Kat.
I nod.
"If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert.
"Or rather he will soon be made acting sergeant-major," says Kat.
We look at one another.
"I would not do it," I say.
"All the same," says Kat, "It's very good for you to see it just now."