Not now!
Not now at the last moment!
Summer of 1918—Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, insensate question: Why?
Why do they make an end?
And why do these rumours of an end fly about?
There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares.
For every one German plane there come at least five English and American.
For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit.
For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there.
We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelming superior forces.
Behind us lay rainy weeks—grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying.
If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;— and we remain wet all the time we are in the line.
We never get dry.
Those who will wear high boots tie sand bags round the tops so that the mud does not pour in so fast.
The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down.
The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the child-like cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans painfully into silence.
Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain.
We do not know whether we still live.
Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell-holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls.
We two are alone.
I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed.
It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately:
"At last— just at the last–––"
I comfort him.
"Who knows how long this mess will go on yet!
Now you are saved–––"
The wound begins to bleed fast.
Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher.
Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood.
Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him.
Twice we rest.
He suffers acutely on the way.
We do not speak much.
I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying.
All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.
"Shall we go on again Kat?"
"Must, Paul."
"Then come."
I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree.
I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm.
The going is more difficult.
Often a shell whistles across.
I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground.
We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over.
We lie down in a small hole to wait till the shelling is over.
I give Kat some tea from my water bottle.
We smoke a cigarette.
"Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last."
He is silent and looks at me.
"Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose?