No change on the western front. Erich Maria Remarque

The height of the first world war. Germany is already at war against France, Russia, England and America, Paul Beumer, on whose behalf the story is being told, introduces his fellow soldiers. Schoolchildren, peasants, fishermen, artisans of different ages gathered here.

The company has lost almost half of its personnel and is resting nine kilometers from the front line after meeting with British weapons - "meat grinders".

Due to shelling losses, they receive double portions of food and smoke. The soldiers sleep off, eat their fill, smoke and play cards. Müller, Kropp and Paul go to their wounded classmate. The four of them ended up in one company, persuaded by the "sincere voice" of the class teacher Kantorek. Joseph Boehm did not want to go to war, but, fearing “cutting off all the paths for himself,” he also volunteered.

He was one of the first to be killed. From the received wounds in the eyes, he could not find shelter, lost his bearings and was shot. And in a letter to Cropp, their former mentor Kantorek sends his greetings, calling them "iron guys". This is how thousands of Kantoreks fool the youth.

The guys find another classmate, Kimmerich, in a field hospital with an amputated leg. Franz Kimmerich's mother asked Paul to look after him, "after all, he is just a child." But how do you do it on the front lines? One glance at Franz is enough to understand that he is hopeless. While Franz was unconscious, his watch was stolen, a favorite watch received as a gift. True, there were some excellent English boots made of leather up to the knees, which he no longer needed. He dies in front of his comrades. Depressed, they return to the barrack with Franz's boots. On the way, Cropp gets hysterical.

There are new recruits in the barracks. The killed are replaced by the living. One of the recruits says that they were fed one rutabaga. The miner Katchinsky (aka Kat) feeds the boy with beans and meat. Kropp offers his own version of warfare: let the generals fight on their own, and the victor will declare his country the winner. And so others are fighting for them, who did not start the war and who do not need it at all.

The company with replenishment is sent to the sapper work on the front line. Experienced Kat teaches recruits how to recognize and hide from shots and explosions. Listening to the "vague hum of the front", he suggests that at night "they will be given a light."

Paul reflects on the behavior of the soldiers on the front lines, about how they are all instinctively connected to the ground, into which you want to squeeze when the shells whistle. To the soldier, she seems to be “a silent, reliable intercessor, with a groan and a cry, he confides in her his fear and his pain, and she accepts them ... in those minutes when he clung to her, long and tightly squeezing her in his arms, when the fear of death is under fire makes him deeply bury his face and all his body in her, she is his only Friend, brother, his mother. "

As Kat had foreseen, the bombardment was of the highest density. The popping of chemical projectiles. Gongs and metal rattles announce: "Gas, Gas!" All hope is for the tightness of the mask. Soft Jellyfish fills all the funnels. We have to get out upstairs, but there is shelling.

Page 11 of 13

Chapter 10

We got ourselves a warm place. Our team of eight must guard the village, which had to be abandoned, as the enemy was firing too hard on it.

First of all, we have been ordered to look after the food warehouse, from which not everything has yet been taken out. We must provide ourselves with food, from available reserves. We are masters of this. We are Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Leer, Detering. Our entire department has gathered here. True, Haye is no longer alive. But all the same, we can still assume that we are still very lucky - in all other departments there are much more losses than in ours.

For housing, we choose a concrete cellar with a staircase going outside. The entrance is also protected by a special concrete wall.

Then we develop vigorous activity. We again had a chance to relax not only in body, but also in soul. And we do not miss such cases, our situation is desperate, and we cannot stir up sentiment for a long time. You can indulge in despondency only as long as things are not yet completely nasty. ”We have to look at things simply, we have no other way out. of those pre-war times, I am frightened by the straightforwardness, but such thoughts do not linger for long.

We must take our plight as calmly as possible. We use any opportunity for this. Therefore, next to the horrors of war, side by side with them, without any transition, in our life is the desire to fool around. And now we are working with zeal to create an idyll for ourselves - of course, an idyll in the sense of grub and sleep.

First of all, we line the floor with mattresses that we brought from the houses. The soldier's ass is also sometimes not averse to soak up the soft. Only in the middle of the cellar is there free space. Then we get our hands on blankets and duvets, incredibly soft, completely luxurious pieces. Fortunately, all this is enough in the village. Albert and I find a collapsible mahogany bed with a blue silk canopy and lace capes. We lost seven sweats while we dragged her here, but you really can't deny yourself this, especially since in a few days she will probably be blown to pieces by shells.

Kat and I go scouting home. We soon manage to pick up a dozen eggs and two pounds of fairly fresh butter. We are standing in a living room, when suddenly a crack is heard and, breaking through the wall, an iron stove flies into the room, which whistles past us and, at a distance of a meter, again goes into another wall. Two holes remain. The stove flew from the house opposite, which was hit by a shell.

Lucky, - Kat grins, and we continue our search.

Suddenly we alert our ears and run away. After that, we stop as if spellbound: in a small corner, two live pigs are frolicking. We wipe our eyes and carefully look there again. Indeed, they are still there. We touch them with our hand. There is no doubt that these are really two young pigs.

It will be a delicious dish! About fifty paces from our dugout there is a small house in which the officers were quartered. In the kitchen we find a huge stove with two burners, pans, pots and pots. There is everything here, including an impressive supply of finely chopped wood piled in a barn. Not a house, but a full bowl.

In the morning we sent two of them to the field to look for potatoes, carrots and young peas. We live on a grand scale, canned food from the warehouse does not suit us, we wanted something fresh. There are already two heads of cauliflower in the closet.

Piglets are slaughtered. This case was taken over by Cat. For the roast, we want to bake potato pancakes. But we don't have potato graters. However, even here we soon find a way out: we take the lids from cans, punch a lot of holes in them with a nail, and the graters are ready. Three of us put on tight gloves so as not to scratch our fingers, the other two are peeling potatoes, and things are getting better.

Khat is a sacred rite on piglets, carrots, peas and cauliflower. He even prepared a white sauce for the cabbage. I bake potato pancakes, four at a time. Ten minutes later, I got the hang of tossing pancakes fried on one side in a frying pan so that they turn over in the air and again flop into place. The piglets are roasted whole. Everyone stands around them, like an altar.

Meanwhile, guests came to us: two radio operators, whom we generously invite to dine with us. They are sitting in the living room, where there is a piano. One of them sat down with him and played, the other sings "On the Vezer". He sings with feeling, but his pronunciation is clearly Saxon. Nevertheless, we listen to it with emotion, standing at the stove on which all these delicious things are fried and baked.

After a while, we notice that they are shooting at us, and in earnest. Tethered balloons detected smoke from our chimney, and the enemy opened fire on us. These are those mischievous little things that rip out a shallow hole and produce so many far and low flying debris. They whistle around us, getting closer and closer, but we can't really throw all our food here. Gradually, these scoundrels were shot. Several fragments fly through the upper window frame into the kitchen. We will quickly manage the roast. But baking pancakes is getting harder. The tears follow each other so quickly that the debris increasingly plops against the wall and falls through the window. Hearing the whistle of another toy, every time I squat, holding a frying pan with pancakes in my hands, and press myself against the wall by the window. Then I immediately get up and continue to bake.

The Saxon man stopped playing - one of the fragments hit the piano. Little by little we have finished our business and are organizing a retreat. After waiting for the next break, two people take pots of vegetables and run a bullet fifty meters to the dugout. We see them dive into it.

Another break. They all bend down, and the second pair, each with a coffee pot with first-class coffee in their hands, sets off at a trot and manages to hide in the dugout until the next break.

Then Kat and Kropp pick up a large skillet of browned roasts. This is the highlight of our program. The projectile howl, squatting - and now they are racing, overcoming fifty meters of unprotected space.

I bake the last four pancakes; during this time I have to squat on the floor twice, but still now we have four more pancakes, and this is my favorite food.

Then I grab a platter with a tall stack of pancakes and stand leaning against the door. A hiss, a crackling sound, and I gallop forward, clutching the dish to my chest with both hands. I am almost at the goal when suddenly a growing whistle is heard. I rush like an antelope and swirl around the concrete wall. Shards drum on it; I slide down the stairs to the cellar; my elbows are broken, but I have not lost a single pancake or knocked over the dish.

At two o'clock we sit down for lunch. We eat until six. Until half-past six we drink coffee, officer's coffee from the food warehouse, and at the same time we smoke officer's cigars and cigarettes - all from the same warehouse. At seven o'clock we start to have dinner. At ten o'clock we throw pig skeletons out the door. Then we turn to cognac and rum, again from the stocks of the blessed warehouse, and again we smoke long, thick cigars with stickers on the belly. Tjaden claims that only one thing is missing - the girls from the officer's brothel.

Late in the evening we hear meows. A small gray kitten sits at the entrance. We lure him in and give him something to eat. From this, our appetite comes to us again. When we go to bed, we are still chewing.

However, we have a hard time at night. We ate too much fat. A fresh suckling pig is very burdensome on the stomach. Walking continues in the dugout. Two or three people all the time sit outside with their pants down and curse everything in the world. I myself make ten runs. At about four o'clock in the morning, we set a record: all eleven people, the guard team and guests, sat around the dugout.

Burning houses blaze like torches in the night. Shells fly out of the darkness and crash into the ground. Columns of vehicles with ammunition rush along the road. One of the walls of the warehouse has been torn down. The chauffeurs from the column are jostling at the breach like a swarm of bees and, in spite of the falling debris, take away the bread. We do not bother them. If we thought to stop them, they would beat us, that's all. Therefore, we act differently. We explain that we are a guard, and since we know what lies where, we bring canned food and exchange it for things that we lack. Why shake over them, because there will soon be nothing left here anyway! For ourselves, we bring chocolate from the warehouse and eat it in whole bars. Kat says it's good to eat it when the stomach is haunted by the legs.

Almost two weeks pass, during which we only do what we eat, drink and sit back. Nobody bothers us. The village slowly disappears under the bursts of shells, and we live a happy life. As long as at least part of the warehouse is intact, we do not need anything else, and we have only one desire - to stay here until the end of the war.

Tjaden has become so fussy that he only smokes half of his cigars. He explains gravely that it has become a habit for him. Kat also freaks out - waking up in the morning, the first thing he does is shout:

Emil, bring caviar and coffee! In general, we are all terribly arrogant, one considers the other his orderly, turns to him on "you" and gives him instructions.

Cropp, my sole is itching, take the trouble to catch the louse.

With these words, Leer stretches out his leg to Albert, like a spoiled artist, and he drags him by the leg up the stairs.

At ease, Tjaden! By the way, remember: not "what", but "obey." Well, one more time: "Tjaden!"

Tjaden bursts into abuse and again quotes the famous passage from Goetz von Berlichingen, which is always in his language.

Another week passes, and we receive an order to return. Our happiness has come to an end. Two large trucks are taking us with them. Planks are piled on top of them. But Albert and I still manage to put our four-poster bed on top, with a blue silk bedspread, mattresses and lace capes. At the head of the bed, we put a bag of selected products. From time to time we stroke and hard smoked sausages, cans of liver and canned food, boxes of cigars fill our hearts with glee. Each of our team has such a bag with them.

In addition, Kropp and I rescued two more red plush chairs. They stand in bed, and we, lounging, sit on them, as in a theater box. Like a tent, a silk veil trembles and swells above us. Everyone has a cigar in their mouths. So we sit, looking at the terrain from above.

Between us is the cage in which the parrot lived; we tracked her down for the cat. We took the cat with us, she lies in the cage in front of her bowl and purrs.

Cars roll slowly along the road. We sing. Behind us, where there is now a completely abandoned village, shells throw up the fountains of the earth.

In a few days we set out to take one seat. On the way, we meet refugees - the evicted inhabitants of this village. They carry their belongings with them - in wheelbarrows, in strollers and just behind their backs. They walk with their heads down, grief, despair, harassment and resignation are written on their faces. Children cling to the hands of their mothers, sometimes the little ones are led by an older girl, and they stumble after her and turn around all the time. Some carry some kind of pathetic doll with them. Passing by us, everyone is silent.

So far, we are moving in a marching column, because the French will not fire at the village, from which their fellow countrymen have not yet left. But after a few minutes a howl is heard in the air, the earth trembles, screams are heard, the shell hit the platoon closing the column, and the shrapnel thoroughly battered it. We throw ourselves scatteringly and fall face down, but at the same instant I notice that the feeling of tension, which has always unconsciously dictated to me the only correct decision under fire, this time betrayed me; in my head the thought flashes like lightning: "You are lost", a disgusting, paralyzing fear moves in me. Another moment, and I feel a sharp pain in my left leg, like a blow from a whip. I can hear Albert screaming; he is somewhere near me.

Get up, let's run, Albert! - I yell to him, because we are lying with him without shelter, in an open space.

He hardly lifts himself off the ground and runs. I stick close to him. We need to jump over the hedge; she is taller than human height. Kropp clings to the branches, I grab his leg, he screams loudly, I push him, he flies over the hedge. Jump, I follow Kropp and fall into the water - there was a pond behind the fence.

Our faces are smeared with mud and mud, but we have found a good hiding place. Therefore, we climb into the water up to our throats. Hearing the howl of a shell, we dive headlong into it.

After doing this ten times, I feel that I can no longer. Albert also groans:

Let's get out of here, or I'll fall over and drown.

Where did you go? I ask.

It seems to be in the knee.

Can you run?

Perhaps I can.

Then let's run! We reach a roadside ditch and duck down along it. The fire is catching up with us. The road leads to the ammunition depot. If it takes off, even buttons will never be found from us. So we change the plan and run into the field, at an angle to the road.

Albert starts to lag behind.

Run, I'll catch up, ”he says and falls to the ground.

I shake him and drag him by the hand:

Come up. Albert! If you lie down now, you will no longer be able to reach. Come on, I'll support you!

Finally we reach a small dugout. Kropp flops to the floor and I bandage him. The bullet entered just above the knee. Then I examine myself. I have blood on my pants, and on my arm too. Albert puts bandages from his bags on the entrance holes. He can no longer move his leg, and we both wonder how it was enough for us to drag ourselves here. This is all, of course, only out of fear - even if our feet were torn off, we would still run away from there. At least on stumps, but they would run away.

I can still crawl and call a passing carriage to pick us up. It is full of the wounded. They are accompanied by an orderly, he pushes a syringe into our chest - this is an anti-tetanus vaccine.

In the field hospital, we manage to get us to be put together. We are given a thin broth, which we eat with contempt, albeit greedily - we have seen better times, but now we still want to eat.

So, right, home, Albert? I ask.

Let's hope, ”he replies. “If only I knew what was the matter with me.

The pain gets worse. Everything under the bandage is on fire. We drink water endlessly, mug after mug.

Where is my wound? Much above the knee? Kropp asks.

At least ten centimeters, Albert, I say.

In fact, there must be three centimeters.

That's what I decided, - he says after a while, - if they take my leg away, I will put an end to it. I don't want to waddle around the world on crutches.

So we lie alone with our thoughts and wait.

In the evening we are carried to the "chopping room". I get scared, and I quickly figure out what to do, because everyone knows that in field hospitals, doctors amputate arms and legs without hesitation. Now that the infirmaries are so packed, it's easier than painstakingly stitching a person out of pieces. I am reminded of Kemmerich. I will never let myself be chloroformed, even if I have to break someone's head.

So far, everything is going well. The doctor picks at the wound, so my eyes go dark.

There's nothing to pretend, ”he scolds, continuing to hack me.

The tools sparkle in the bright light like the teeth of a bloodthirsty beast. The pain is unbearable. Two orderlies hold my hands tightly: I manage to free one, and I am already going to go to the doctor for glasses, but he notices it in time and jumps back.

Give this type of anesthesia! he screams in fury.

I immediately become meek.

Excuse me, Doctor, I'll be quiet, but don't put me to sleep.

That's the same, - he creaks and again takes up his instruments.

This is a blonde with duel scars and nasty gold glasses on his nose. He is at most thirty years old. I see that now he is deliberately torturing me - he is rummaging in my wound, from time to time glancing sideways at me from under his glasses. I grabbed onto the handrails - I'd rather die, but he won't hear a sound from me.

The doctor fishes out the shard and shows it to me. Apparently, he is pleased with my behavior: he carefully puts a splint on me and says:

Tomorrow on the train, and home! Then they put me in a plaster cast. When I see Kropp in the ward, I tell him that the ambulance train will arrive, in all likelihood, tomorrow.

We need to talk to the paramedic to be left together, Albert.

I manage to hand the paramedic two cigars with stickers from my stock and screw in a few words. He sniffs cigars and asks:

What else do you have?

A good handful, I say. “And my friend,” I point to Cropp, “also has one. Tomorrow we will be happy to hand them over to you from the window of the ambulance train.

He, of course, immediately understands what the matter is: having sniffed again, he says:

At night we cannot sleep for a minute. Seven people are dying in our ward. One of them sings chorales in a high, strangled tenor for an hour, then the singing turns into a death rattle. Another climbs out of bed and manages to crawl to the windowsill. He lies under the window, as if about to take one last look out into the street.

Our stretchers are at the station. We are waiting for the train. It is raining and the station has no roof. The blankets are thin. We've been waiting for two hours.

The paramedic looks after us like a caring mother. Although I feel very bad, I have not forgotten our plan. As if by chance, I throw back the blanket so that the paramedic can see the packs of cigars, and give him one as a deposit. For this he covers us with a cape.

Eh, Albert, buddy, - I remember, - do you remember our canopy bed and cat?

And chairs, ”he adds.

Yes, red plush chairs. In the evenings we sat on them like kings and were about to rent them out. A cigarette in an hour. We would live for ourselves without knowing worries, and we would also have benefits.

Albert, - I remember, - and our bags of food ...

We feel sad. All this would be very useful to us. If the train left a day later. Kath would surely have found us and brought us our share.

That's bad luck. In our stomachs we have a stew of flour - meager infirmary grubs - and in our sacks are canned pork. But we are already so weak that we are not in a position to worry about this.

The train arrives only in the morning, and by this time water is sloshing in the stretcher. The paramedic arranges us in one carriage. Sisters of mercy from the Red Cross are everywhere. Kroppa is placed at the bottom. They lift me up, I have a place above him.

Well wait, - suddenly breaks out from me.

What's the matter? the sister asks.

I glance at the bed again. It is covered with snow-white linen sheets, incomprehensibly clean, they even show the folds from the iron. And I haven't changed my shirt for six weeks, it's black with dirt.

Can't you fit yourself? the sister asks anxiously.

I’ll climb in, ”I say, feeling that I’m roaring,“ just take off your linen first.

Why? It seems to me that I am as dirty as a pig. Will they really put me here?

Why, I ... - I hesitate to finish my thought.

Will you smear it a little? she asks, trying to cheer me up. - It doesn’t matter, we will wash it later.

No, that’s not the point, ”I say in excitement.

I am not at all ready for such a sudden return to the fold of civilization.

You were lying in the trenches, so are we really not going to wash the sheets for you? she continues.

I look at her; She is young and looks as fresh, crisp, cleanly washed and pleasant as everything around, it is hard to believe that this is not only for officers, it makes you uncomfortable and even somehow scary.

And yet this woman is a real executioner: she makes me speak.

I was just thinking ... - At that I stop talking: she must understand what I mean.

What else is it?

I’m talking about lice, ”I blurted out at last.

She is laughing:

Someday they must also live for their own pleasure.

Well, now I don't care. I climb onto the shelf and take cover with my head.

Fingers are rummaging over the blanket. This is a paramedic. Having received the cigars, he leaves.

An hour later, we notice that we are on our way.

I wake up at night. Kropp tosses and turns too. The train rolls quietly on the tracks. All this is still somehow incomprehensible: bed, train, home. I whisper:

Albert!

Do you know where the restroom is?

I think it’s over that door to the right.

Let's see.

It is dark in the carriage, I feel the edge of the shelf and am about to slide down carefully. But my leg does not find a fulcrum, I begin to slide off the shelf - you cannot lean on a wounded leg, and I crash to the floor.

Damn it! I say.

Are you hurt? Kropp asks.

Didn't you hear, or what? I snap. - I cracked my head so that ...

Then at the end of the carriage a door opens. My sister comes up with a lantern in her hands and sees me.

He fell off the shelf ... She feels my pulse and touches my forehead.

But you have no temperature.

No, I agree.

Probably something dreamed? she asks.

Yes, I suppose, - I answer evasively.

And again questions begin. She looks at me with her clear eyes, so clean and amazing - no, I just can't tell her what I need.

They lift me up again. Wow, that's settled! After all, when she leaves, I will have to go down again! If she had been an old woman, I would probably have told her what was the matter, but she's so young, she's no more than twenty-five. It can't be helped, I can't tell her that.

Then Albert comes to my aid - he has nothing to be ashamed of, because we are not talking about him. He beckons his sister to him:

Sister, he needs ...

But Albert also does not know how to express himself to make it sound quite decent. At the front, in conversation with each other, one word would be enough for us, but here, in the presence of such a lady ... But then he suddenly recalls his school years and briskly ends:

He should go out, sister.

Oh, that's it, - says the sister. - So for this he does not have to get out of bed at all, especially since he is in a cast. What exactly do you need? - she turns to me.

I am scared to death by this new turn of affairs, since I have not the slightest idea what terminology is adopted to refer to these things.

My sister comes to my aid:

Small or big?

What a shame! I feel that I am all sweating, and I say, embarrassed:

Only in a small way.

Well, it didn't end so badly.

They give me a duck. A few hours later, a few more people follow my example, and by the morning we are already used to it and do not hesitate to ask for what we need.

The train is moving slowly. Sometimes he stops to unload the dead. It stops quite often.

Albert is getting fever. I feel bearable, my leg hurts, but much worse is that there are obviously lice under the cast. The leg itches terribly, but you can't scratch it.

Our days pass in a doze. Outside the window, the views float silently. On the third night we arrive in Herbestal. I learn from my sister that Albert will be dropped off at the next stop - he has a fever.

Where are we staying? I ask.

In Cologne.

Albert, we will stay together, - I say, - you will see.

When my sister makes the next round, I hold my breath and force the air in. My face is red and bloodshot. The sister stops:

Are you in pain?

Yes, I say with a groan. - Somehow they suddenly started.

She gives me a thermometer and moves on. Now I know what to do, because I did not learn from Kat for nothing. These soldier's thermometers are not designed for experienced warriors. One has only to drive the mercury upward, as it gets stuck in its narrow tube and no longer goes down.

I put the thermometer obliquely under my arm, mercury up, and click it with my index finger for a long time. Then I shake it and turn it over. It turns out 37.9. But this is not enough. Gently holding it over a burning match, I catch up with the temperature to 38.7.

When my sister returns, I pout like a turkey, try to breathe abruptly, look at her with dull eyes, turn restlessly and say in an undertone:

Oh, there is no urine to endure! She writes my last name on a piece of paper. I firmly know that my plaster cast will not be touched unless absolutely necessary.

I am being dropped off the train with Albert.

We are in the infirmary at a Catholic monastery, in the same room. We are very fortunate: Catholic hospitals are renowned for their good care and delicious food. The infirmary is filled with the wounded from our train; many of them are in serious condition. Today we are not yet examined because there are too few doctors here. Down the corridor every now and then they carry low carts on rubber tread, and each time someone lies on them, stretched out to their full height. A damn uncomfortable position - just sleep well.

The night is very restless. Nobody can sleep. In the morning we manage to doze off for a while. I wake up from the light. The door is open and voices are heard from the hallway. My roommates are waking up too. One of them - he has been lying for several days - explains to us what the matter is:

Upstairs here, the sisters read prayers every morning. They call it matins. In order not to deprive us of the pleasure of listening, they open the door to the ward.

Of course, this is very caring on their part, but all our bones ache and our head cracks.

What a disgrace! I say. - I just managed to fall asleep.

They lie up here with minor wounds, so they decided that it could be done with us, - my neighbor replies.

Albert groans. Anger takes me apart, and I shout:

Hey there, shut up! A minute later, a sister appears in the ward. In her black and white nun's attire, she resembles a pretty coffee pot doll.

Close the door, sister, someone says.

The door is open because a prayer is being read in the corridor, she replies.

And we haven't slept yet.

Better to pray than sleep. She stands and smiles an innocent smile. “Besides, it's already seven o'clock.

Albert groaned again.

Close the door! I bark.

The sister was taken aback, - as you can see, it does not fit in her head how you can shout like that.

We pray for you too.

Close the door anyway! She disappears, leaving the door unlocked. Monotonous muttering is heard in the corridor again. It pisses me off and I say:

I count to three. If during this time they do not stop, I will launch something into them.

And me too, - says one of the wounded.

I count to five. Then I grab an empty bottle, take aim, and throw it through the door into the hallway. The bottle shatters into small pieces. The voices of the worshipers fall silent. A flock of sisters appears in the ward. They swear, but in very restrained terms.

Close the door! we shout.

They are removed. The little one who came to us just now is the last to leave.

Atheists, she babbles, but still closes the door.

We have won.

At noon the chief of the infirmary comes and gives us a thrashing. He frightens us with strength and even something worse. But all these military doctors, just like the quartermasters, are still nothing more than officials, although they wear a long sword and epaulettes, and therefore even recruits do not take them seriously. Let him talk to himself. He won't do anything to us.

Who dropped the bottle? he asks.

I had not yet had time to figure out whether I should confess, when suddenly someone says:

I! On one of the bunks a man with a thick, matted beard rises. Everyone is eager to find out why he named himself.

Yes sir. I was worried that we were needlessly woken up, and lost control of myself, so that I no longer knew what I was doing. He speaks as if written.

What is your last name?

Joseph Hamacher, called up from the reserve.

The Inspector leaves.

All of us are curious.

Why did you give your last name? You didn't do it at all!

He grins.

So what if not me? I have absolution.

Now everyone understands what this is about. Anyone who has "remission of sins" can do whatever he pleases.

So, - he says, - I was wounded in the head, and after that I was given a certificate that at times I am insane. Since then, I have not bothered about anything. I must not be annoyed. So they won't do anything to me. This guy on the first floor is going to be pretty pissed off. And I called myself because I liked the way they threw the bottle. If they open the door again tomorrow, we'll throw another one.

We rejoice loudly. As long as Joseph Hamacher is among us, we can do the most risky things.

Then silent carriages come for us.

The bandages are dry. We hum like bulls.

There are eight people in our ward. The hardest wound from Peter, the Black Academy Curly Guy, - he has a complicated end-to-end wound in the lungs. His neighbor Franz Wächter has a shattered forearm, and at first it seems to us that his affairs are not so bad. But on the third night he calls us and asks us to call - it seems to him that the blood has passed through the bandages.

I push the button hard. The night nurse does not come. In the evening we made her run, - all of us were bandaged, and after that the wounds always hurt. One asked to put his leg like this, the other - that way, the third was thirsty, the fourth had to beat the pillow, - at the end the fat old woman began to grumble angrily, and as she left she slammed the door. Now she probably thinks that everything starts all over again, and therefore does not want to go.

We are waiting. Franz then says:

Call again! I'm calling. The nurse still does not appear. At night, only one sister remains in our entire outbuilding, perhaps just now she was just called to other wards.

Franz, are you sure you're bleeding? I ask. - Otherwise they will scold us again.

The bandages are wet. Can't somebody turn on the light?

But with the light, too, nothing works: the switch is at the door, and no one can get up. I press the bell button until my finger goes numb. Perhaps the sister dozed off? After all, they have so much work to do, they look so overworked by day. Plus, they pray every now and then.

Throw us a bottle? - asks Joseph Hamacher, a man who is allowed to do everything.

Since she doesn't hear the call, she certainly won't hear it.

Finally the door opens. A sleepy old woman appears on the threshold. Seeing what happened to Franz, she begins to fuss and exclaims:

Why didn't anyone let you know about it?

We called. And none of us can walk.

He was bleeding heavily and is being bandaged again. In the morning we see his face: it turned yellow and sharpened, and yet last night he looked almost completely healthy. Now my sister began to visit us more often.

Sometimes we are looked after by sisters from the Red Cross. They are kind, but sometimes they lack skill. When they shift us from the stretcher to the bed, they often hurt us, and then they get so scared that it makes us even worse.

We trust nuns more. They know how to deftly pick up the wounded, but we would like them to be a little more cheerful. However, some of them have a sense of humor, and these, really, well done. Who among us would not do, for example, any service to Sister Libertina? As soon as we see this amazing woman at least from a distance, the mood in the entire wing immediately rises. And there are many of them. For them we are ready for fire and water. No, there is no need to complain - the nuns treat us like civilians. And when you remember what is going on in the garrison hospitals, it becomes so simply scary.

Franz Wächter never got better. Once it is taken away and no longer brought. Joseph Hamacher explains:

Now we will not see him. They took him to the dead.

What is this dead thing? Kropp asks.

Well, death row.

What is it?

This is a small room at the end of the wing. Those who were going to stretch their legs are placed there. There are two bunks there. They all call her dead.

But why are they doing this?

And they have less fuss. Then it’s more convenient - the room is right next to the elevator, which leads to the morgue. Or maybe this is done so that no one dies in the wards, in front of others. And it’s easier to look after him when he’s alone.

And how does he feel?

Joseph shrugs.

So after all, whoever got there usually no longer really knows what they are doing with him.

And what, everyone here knows it?

Those who have been here for a long time, of course, know.

After dinner, a new one is put on Franz Wächter's bed. A few days later he is also carried away. Joseph makes an expressive hand gesture. It is not the last one - many more come and go before our very eyes.

Sometimes relatives sit by the beds; they cry or talk quietly, embarrassedly. One old woman doesn't want to leave, but she can't stay here overnight. The next morning she comes very early, but she should have come even earlier - going to the bed, she sees that there is already another lying on it. She is invited to go to the morgue. She brought apples with her and is now giving them to us.

Little Peter also feels worse. His temperature curve climbs alarmingly upward, and one day a low wheelchair stops at his bunk.

Where to? he asks.

In the dressing room.

He is lifted onto a stroller. But his sister makes a mistake: she takes off his soldier's jacket from the hook and puts it next to him so as not to go for it again. Peter immediately guesses what the matter is, and tries to roll out of the carriage:

I am staying here! They don't let him rise. He screams softly with his perforated lungs:

I don't want to go to the dead!

We're taking you to the dressing room.

What do you need my jacket for then? He can no longer speak. He whispers in a hoarse, agitated whisper:

Leave me here! They do not answer and take him out of the ward. At the door, he tries to get up. His black curly head is shaking, his eyes are full of tears.

I'll be back! I'll be back! he shouts.

The door closes. We are all agitated, but silent. Finally Joseph says:

We do not hear this from the first. But whoever got there will not survive.

I have an operation, and after that I vomit for two days. My doctor's clerk says my bones don't want to heal. In one of our department, they have grown together incorrectly, and they are broken again for him. This is also a small pleasure. Among the new arrivals there are two young soldiers suffering from flat feet. During the round, they catch the eye of the chief doctor, who delightedly stops near their beds.

We will save you from this, ”he says. - A small operation and you will have healthy legs. Sister, write them down.

As he leaves, the all-knowing Joseph warns the newcomers:

Look, don't settle for an operation! This, you see, our old man has such a fad on the scientific side. In a dream, he also sees how to get himself someone for this business. He will perform an operation for you, and after that your foot will in fact be no longer flat; but it will be twisted, and you will waddle with a wand until the end of your days.

What are we going to do now? one of them asks.

Don't give consent! You were sent here to heal wounds, not to eliminate flat feet! What kind of legs did you have at the front? Oh, that's the same! Now you can still walk, but you will visit the old man under the knife and become crippled. He needs guinea pigs, so war is the most wonderful time for him, as it is for all doctors. Take a look into the lower compartment - there are a dozen of people crawling around, whom he operated on. Some have been sitting here for years, from the fifteenth and even the fourteenth year. None of them began to walk better than before, on the contrary, almost all of them are worse, most of them have legs in a cast. Every six months he again drags them to the table and breaks their bones in a new way, and each time he tells them that now success is guaranteed. Think carefully, without your consent, he has no right to do this.

Eh, buddy, - says one of them wearily, - legs are better than a head. Can you tell in advance where you will get it when you are sent there again? Let them do what they want with me, just to get home. Better to hobble, but stay alive.

His friend, a young guy of our age, does not agree. The next morning the old man orders them to be brought down; there he begins to persuade them and shout at them, so that in the end they still agree. What is left for them to do? After all, they are just a gray brute, and he is a big shot. They are brought to the ward under chloroform and in plaster.

Albert is not doing well. He is being carried to the operating room for amputation. The leg is taken away entirely, to the very top. Now he almost stopped talking at all. One day he says that he is going to shoot himself, that he will do it as soon as he gets to his revolver.

A new echelon with the wounded arrives. They put two blind people in our ward. One of them is still a very young musician. Serving him lunch, the sisters always hide knives from him - he once snatched a knife from one of them. Despite these precautions, trouble befell him.

In the evening, at dinner, his serving sister is called from the room for a minute, and she puts a plate and fork on his table. He gropingly finds a fork, takes it in his hand and thrust it into his heart with a swing, then grabs a shoe and pounds it on the handle with all his might. We call for help, but you can't cope with him alone, it takes three people to take the fork away from him. The blunt prongs managed to enter quite deeply. He scolds us all night so that no one can sleep. In the morning he has a fit of hysteria.

We have free beds. Days go by, and each of them is pain and fear, groans and wheezing. The "dead" are now useless, there are too few of them - at night people die in the wards, including ours. Death overtakes the wise foresight of our sisters.

But then one fine day the door swings open, a carriage appears on the threshold, and on it - pale, thin - sits, victoriously raising his black curly head, Peter. Sister Libertina, with a beaming face, rolls him up to his old bunk. He returned from the "dead". And we thought for a long time that he was dead.

He looks in all directions:

Well, what do you say to that?

And even Joseph Hamacher is forced to admit that he has never seen anything like this before.

After a while, some of us get permission to get out of bed. They give me crutches too, and little by little I begin to hobble. However, I rarely use them, I can not bear the gaze fixed on me by Albert as I walk through the ward. He always looks at me with such strange eyes. Therefore, from time to time I run away into the corridor - there I feel freer.

On the floor below, there are those wounded in the stomach, in the spine, in the head, and with amputation of both arms or legs. In the right wing - people with crushed jaws, gas poisoned, wounded in the nose, ears and throat. The left wing was set aside for the blind and wounded in the lungs, in the pelvis, in the joints, in the kidneys, in the scrotum, in the stomach. Only here you see clearly how vulnerable the human body is.

Two of the injured die of tetanus. Their skin turns gray, their bodies become numb, and in the end life is glowing - for a very long time - in their eyes alone. Some have a broken arm or leg tied on a string and hanging in the air, as if pulled up on a gallows. Others have stretchers attached to the headboard with heavy weights at the end that hold the healing arm or leg in a tense position. I see people with open intestines, in which feces are constantly accumulating. The clerk shows me X-rays of the hip, knee and shoulder joints, which are shattered into small fragments.

It seems incomprehensible that these tattered bodies are attached to human faces, still living ordinary, everyday life. But this is only one infirmary, only one department! There are hundreds of thousands of them in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How meaningless is everything that has been written, done and changed by people, if such things are possible in the world! To what extent is our millennial civilization deceitful and worthless if it could not even prevent these blood flows, if it allowed hundreds of thousands of such dungeons to exist in the world. Only in the infirmary do you see with your own eyes what war is.

I am young - I am twenty years old, but all that I have seen in my life is despair, death, fear and the interweaving of the most absurd thoughtless vegetation with immeasurable torment. I see that someone is setting one people against another and people are killing each other, in insane blinding submitting to someone else's will, not knowing what they are doing, not knowing their guilt. I see that the best minds of humanity are inventing weapons to prolong this nightmare, and finding words to justify it even more subtly. And together with me all people of my age see it, in our country and with them, all over the world, our entire generation is experiencing it. What will our fathers say if we ever rise from our graves and stand before them and demand an account? What can they expect from us if we live to see the day when there is no war? For many years we were engaged in killing. This was our calling, the first calling in our life. All we know about life is death. What will happen next? And what will become of us?

The oldest in our ward is Lewandowski. He is forty years old; he has a bad stomach wound and has been in the infirmary for ten months. Only in recent weeks has he recovered so much that he can get up and, bending his lower back, hobble a few steps.

For several days now he has been very agitated. From a provincial Polish town a letter came from his wife, in which she writes that she had saved up money for the trip and can now visit him.

She has already left and should come here any day. Lewandowski has lost his appetite, he even gives sausages with cabbage to his comrades, barely touching his portion. All he knows is that he is pacing the ward with the letter; each of us has already read it ten times already, the stamps on the envelope have been checked an infinite number of times, it is all in bold spots and so captured that the letters are almost invisible, and finally what was expected happens - Lewandowski's temperature jumps and he have to go to bed again.

He has not seen his wife for two years. During this time she gave birth to his child; she will bring him with her. But this is not what Lewandowski's thoughts are about. He hoped that by the time his old women arrived, he would be allowed to go out into the city - after all, it is clear to everyone that it is pleasant to look at his wife, of course, but if a person has been apart from her for so long, he wants to satisfy some other desires.

Lewandowski discussed this issue for a long time with each of us - after all, the soldiers have no secrets on this score. Those of us who are already being released into the city named him several excellent corners in gardens and parks, where no one would disturb him, and one even had a small room in mind.

But what's the use of all this? Lewandowski lies in bed, and he is besieged by worries. Life is not sweet to him now, - he is so tormented by the thought that he will have to miss this opportunity. We console him and promise that we will try to do this business somehow.

The next day his wife appears, a small, dry woman with fearful, fast-moving bird's eyes, in a black mantle with ribbons and ruffles. God knows where she dug up from, she must have inherited it.

The woman mutters something quietly and timidly stops at the door. She was scared that there are six of us here.

Well, Marya, - says Lewandovsky, moving his Adam's apple with a wretched look, - come in, don't be afraid, they won't do anything to you.

Lewandowska goes around the bunks and greets each of us by the hand, then shows the baby, who in the meantime managed to get the diapers dirty. She brought with her a large, beaded bag; taking a clean piece of flannel out of it, she quickly swaddles the baby. This helps her get over her initial embarrassment and she starts talking to her husband.

He is nervous, now and then squinting at us with his bulging round eyes, and he looks the most unhappy.

The time is right now, - the doctor has already made a round, in the worst case, the nurse could look into the ward. Therefore, one of us goes out into the corridor - to find out the situation. Soon he returns and makes a sign:

There is nothing. Go ahead, Johann! Tell her what's the matter and act.

They talk about something with each other in Polish. Our guest looks at us with embarrassment, she blushed a little. We smirk good-naturedly and vigorously dismiss us - well, what, they say, is this so! To hell with all prejudices! They are good for other times. Here lies the carpenter Johann Lewandowski, a soldier crippled in the war, and here is his wife. Who knows when he will see her again, he wants to possess her, let his wish come true, and that's it!

In case some sister does appear in the corridor, we put two people at the door to intercept her and engage in conversation. They promise to watch for a quarter of an hour.

Lewandowski can only lie on his side. So one of us puts a few more pillows behind him. The baby is handed over to Albert, then we turn away for a moment, the black mantilla disappears under the covers, and we cut into a ramp with loud thuds and jokes.

Everything is going well. I scored some crosses, and even that was a trifle, but by some miracle I manage to wriggle out. Because of this, we almost completely forgot about Lewandowski. After a while, the baby begins to roar, although Albert swings him with all his might in his arms. Then there is a quiet rustling and rustling, and when we casually raise our heads, we see that the child is already sucking on his horn in his mother's lap. It is done.

Now we feel like one big family; Lewandowski's wife has become quite cheerful, and Lewandowski himself, sweating and happy, lies in his bed and all shines like that.

He unpacks the embroidered bag. It contains some excellent sausages. Lewandowski takes a knife - solemnly, as if it were a bouquet of flowers, and cuts them into pieces. He points at us with a broad gesture, and a small, dry woman comes up to everyone, smiles and shares the sausage between us. She looks downright pretty now. We call her mother, and she is happy about it and fluffs up our pillows.

After a few weeks, I start going to therapeutic exercises every day. They strap my leg to the pedal and give it a warm-up. The hand has healed long ago.

New echelons of wounded arrive from the front. The bandages are now not made of gauze, but of white corrugated paper - the bandages at the front have become tight.

The Albert's stump heals well. The wound is almost closed. In a few weeks he will be discharged for prosthetics. He still speaks little and is much more serious than before. Often he falls silent in mid-sentence and looks at one point. If not for us, he would have committed suicide long ago. But now the most difficult time is behind him. Sometimes he even watches us play scat.

After being discharged, they give me leave.

Mother does not want to part with me. She's so weak. It's even harder for me than last time.

Then a call comes from the regiment, and I go to the front again.

I find it difficult to say goodbye to my friend Albert Kropp. But such is the part of a soldier - over time he gets used to this too.

All Quiet on the Western Front is the fourth novel by Erich Maria Remarque. This work brought the writer fame, money, world calling and at the same time deprived him of his homeland and put him in mortal danger.

Remarque completed the novel in 1928 and at first tried unsuccessfully to get it published. Most of the leading German publishers felt that the novel about the First World War would not be popular with the modern reader. Finally, Haus Ullstein dared to publish the work. The success brought about by the novel anticipated the wildest expectations. In 1929, All Quiet on the Western Front was published with a circulation of 500 thousand copies and translated into 26 languages. It became the best-selling book in Germany.

The following year, a film of the same name was shot based on the military bestseller. The film, released in the USA, was directed by Lewis Milestone. She won two Oscars for Best Picture and Directing. Later, in 1979, a TV version of the novel was released by director Delbert Mann. In December 2015, the next release of the film based on the cult novel by Remarque is expected. The creator of the picture was Roger Donaldson, the role of Paul Boymer was played by Daniel Radcliffe.

Outcast at home

Despite worldwide acclaim, the novel was received negatively by Nazi Germany. The unsightly image of the war, painted by Remarque, ran counter to what the Nazis represented in their official version. The writer was immediately called a traitor, a liar, a falsifier.

The Nazis even tried to find Jewish roots in the Remark family. The most replicated "evidence" was the pseudonym of the writer. Erich Maria signed his debut works with the surname Kramer (Remarque vice versa). The authorities spread a rumor that this clearly Jewish surname is the real one.

Three years later, the volumes "All Quiet on the Western Front", along with other inconvenient works, betrayed the so-called "satanic fire" of the Nazis, and the writer lost his German citizenship and left Germany forever. Fortunately, the physical reprisal against everyone's favorite did not take place, but the Nazis took revenge on his sister Elfrida. During the Second World War, she was guillotined for kinship with the enemy of the people.

Remarque did not know how to dissemble and could not remain silent. All the realities described in the novel correspond to the reality that the young soldier Erich Maria had to face during the First World War. Unlike the protagonist, Remarque was lucky to survive and convey his fictional memoirs to the reader. Let's remember the plot of the novel, which brought its creator the most honors and sorrows at the same time.

The height of the First World War. Germany is engaged in active battles with France, England, the United States and Russia. Western front. Young soldiers, yesterday's disciples are far from the strife of the great powers, they are not guided by the political ambitions of the mighty of this world, from day to day they are simply trying to survive.

Nineteen-year-old Paul Beumer and his schoolmates, inspired by the patriotic speeches of the class teacher Kantorek, volunteered. The young men saw the war in a romantic halo. Today they already know her true face - hungry, bloody, dishonorable, deceitful and spiteful. However, there is no turning back.

Paul leads his ingenuous military memoir. His memoirs will not be included in the official chronicles, because they reflect the ugly truth of the great war.

Side by side with Paul, his comrades are fighting - Müller, Albert Kropp, Leer, Kemmerich, Joseph Boehm.

Müller does not lose hope of getting an education. Even on the front line, he does not part with physics textbooks and cramps laws under the whistle of bullets and the roar of exploding shells.

Shorty Albert Kroppa Paul calls "the lightest head." This smart guy will always find a way out of a difficult situation and will never lose his composure.

Leer is a real fashionista. He does not lose his gloss even in a soldier's trench, wears a thick beard in order to impress the fair sex - which one can already be found on the front line.

Franz Kemmerich is not with his comrades right now. He was recently seriously wounded in the leg and is now fighting for life in a military hospital.

And Joseph Bem is no longer among the living. He was the only one who initially did not believe in the pretentious speeches of teacher Kantorek. In order not to be a black sheep, Bey goes to the front together with his comrades and (here's the irony of fate!) Dies among the first before the start of the official conscription.

In addition to his school friends, Paul talks about the comrades he met on the battlefield. This is Tjaden, the most voracious soldier in the company. It is especially difficult for him, because he is having a hard time with provisions at the front. Despite the fact that Tjaden is very thin, he can eat for five. After Tiaden gets up after a hearty meal, he reminds him of a drunk bug.

Haye Westhus is a real giant. He can squeeze a loaf of bread in his hand and ask "what's in my fist?" Haye is far from the smartest, but he is ingenuous and very strong.

Detering spends his days thinking about home and family. He hates war with all his heart and dreams that this torture will end as soon as possible.

Stanislav Katchinsky, aka Kat, is a senior mentor for recruits. He is forty years old. Paul calls him a real "clever and cunning". Young men learn from Kata soldier's endurance and combat skills not with the help of blind force, but with the help of intelligence and ingenuity.

Company Commander Bertink is an example to follow. The soldiers idolize their leader. He is an example of true soldier's valor and fearlessness. During the fight, Bertinck never sits under cover and always risks his life side by side with his subordinates.

The day of our acquaintance with Paul and his company comrades was to some extent happy for the soldiers. On the eve of the company suffered heavy losses, its number was reduced by almost half. However, provisions were prescribed in the old fashioned way for one hundred and fifty people. Paul and his friends are triumphant - now they will get a double portion of lunch, and most importantly - tobacco.

A cook named Tomato is reluctant to give out more than the prescribed amount. An argument ensues between the starving soldiers and the head of the kitchen. They have long disliked the cowardly Tomato, who, with the most trifling fire, does not dare to drive his kitchen to the front line. So the warriors sit hungry for a long time. Lunch comes cold and very late.

The dispute is resolved with the appearance of Commander Bertink. He says that there is nothing to waste for good, and orders to give his wards a double portion.

Having eaten enough, the soldiers go to the meadow, where the latrines are located. Conveniently accommodated in open booths (during the service these are the most comfortable places for spending leisure time), the friends begin to play cards and indulge in memories of the past, forgotten somewhere on the ruins of peacetime, life.

There was also a place in these memories for the teacher Kantoreku, who agitated the young pupils to enroll in volunteers. He was a "stern little man in a gray frock coat" with a sharp face resembling a mouse's face. He began each lesson with a fiery speech, an appeal, an appeal to conscience and patriotic feelings. I must say that the speaker from Kantorek was excellent - in the end, the whole class in an even formation went to the military administration right from behind the school desks.

“These educators,” Boeumer concludes with bitterness, “always have high feelings. They carry them at the ready in their vest pocket and give them out as needed by class. But then we didn’t think about it yet ”.

Friends go to the field hospital, where their friend Franz Kemmerich is. His condition is much worse than Paul and his friends could have imagined. Franz had both legs amputated, but his health is rapidly deteriorating. Kemmerich is still worried about the new English boots that will no longer be useful to him, and the memorable watch that was stolen from the wounded man. Franz dies in the arms of his comrades. Taking their new English boots, saddened, they return to the barrack.

During their absence, newcomers appeared in the company - after all, the dead must be replaced with the living. New arrivals share their experiences of misadventures, hunger and the turnip "diet" that the management has arranged for them. Kat feeds the newcomers with the beans they won from Tomato.

As everyone sets out to dig trenches, Paul Boymer discusses the behavior of the soldier on the front line, his instinctive connection with Mother Earth. How you want to hide in her warm embrace from annoying bullets, to bury yourself deeper from the fragments of flying shells, to wait out the terrible enemy attack in it!

And again the fight. The company counts the dead, and Paul and his friends keep their own register - seven classmates were killed, four in the infirmary, one in an insane asylum.

After a short respite, the soldiers begin preparations for the offensive. They are drilled by squad leader Himmelstoss, a tyrant everyone hates.

The theme of wandering and persecution in Erich Maria Remarque's novel is very close to the author himself, who had to leave his homeland because of his rejection of fascism.

You can read another novel, the difference of which is a very deep and intricate plot that sheds light on the events in Germany after the First World War.

And again, the calculations of the dead after the offensive - out of 150 people in the company, only 32 remained. The soldiers are close to insanity. Each of them has nightmares. Nerves fail. It's hard to believe in the prospect of reaching the end of the war, I only want one thing - to die without suffering.

Paul is given a short vacation. He visits his native places, his family, meets with neighbors, acquaintances. Civilians now seem to him strangers, narrow-minded. They talk about the justice of the war in pubs, develop whole strategies on how to "beat the Frenchman" with the hunters and have no idea what is going on there, on the battlefield.

Returning to the company, Paul repeatedly gets to the front line, each time he manages to avoid death. The comrades die one after another: the clever Muller was killed by an illumination rocket, Leer, the strongman Vesthus and the commander Bertink did not live to see the victory. Boymer carries the wounded Katchinsky off the battlefield on his own shoulders, but the cruel fate is adamant - on the way to the hospital, a stray bullet hits Katu in the head. He dies in the arms of military orderlies.

Paul Beumer's trench memoir ends in 1918, on the day of his death. Tens of thousands of dead, rivers of grief, tears and blood, but the official chronicles dryly broadcast - "All Quiet on the Western Front."

Erich Maria Remarque's novel "All Quiet on the Western Front": a summary

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is just an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became it.

A victim, even if he escaped the shells.

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; now our stomachs are stuffed with beans and meat, and we all walk around well-fed and satisfied.
Even for supper each got a pot full; moreover, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. Such with

It hasn't happened for a long time: our kitchen god with his bald head, crimson like a tomato, invites us to eat more; he waves the ladle,

Barking the passers-by, and hefty portions roll them away. He still does not empty his "peep-gun", and this leads him to despair. Tjaden and Müller

We got a few cans from somewhere and filled them to the brim - in reserve.
Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Mueller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He doesn't care

Remains skinny as a herring.
But most importantly, the smoke was also served in double portions. For each, ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two chewing bars

Tobacco. In general, pretty decent. I exchanged Kutchinsky's cigarettes for my tobacco, and now I have forty. One day to last

Can.
But, as a matter of fact, we are not entitled to all this at all. The bosses are not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.
Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to change another unit. It was quite calm on our site, so by the day of our return

The captenarmus received allowance according to the usual layout and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day

The British suddenly threw up their heavy "meat grinders", unpleasant contraptions, and beat them in our trenches for so long that we carried heavy

Losses, and only eighty men returned from the front line.
We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on bunks to get a good night's sleep first; Kutchinsky is right: it would be different in war

It’s bad if you could only get more sleep. After all, you never really sleep on the front lines, and two weeks drag on for a long time.
When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already noon. Half an hour later, we grabbed our bowlers and gathered at our dear

To the heart of the "peep-gun", from which it smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always have the greatest appetite:

Shorty Albert Kropp, the lightest head in our company and, probably, therefore, only recently promoted to corporal; Müller Fifth who before

Since then, he carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing the preferential exams; under a hurricane of fire he cramps the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick

He has a beard and has a soft spot for brothel girls for officers; he swears that there is an order in the army obliging these girls to wear silk

Linen, and before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above - take a bath; the fourth is me, Paul Beumer. All four are nineteen years old, all

Four went to the front from the same class.
Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a locksmith, a puny young man of the same age with us, the most voracious soldier in the company - he sits down to eat

Thin and slender, and after eating, it rises pot-bellied, like a sucking bug; Haye Westhus, also our age, a peat bog worker who can freely

Take a loaf of bread in your hand and ask: Well, guess what is in my fist? "; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm

And about his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our department, a man with character, clever and cunning - he is forty years old, he has

An earthy face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders, and an extraordinary sense of when the shelling begins, where you can get some food and how best

Just hide from the authorities.

The novel All Quiet on the Western Front was released in 1929. Many publishers doubted his success - he was too frank and uncharacteristic for the ideology of glorification of Germany, which had lost the First World War, which existed in society at that time. Erich Maria Remarque, who volunteered for the war in 1916, acted in his work not so much as an author, but as a merciless witness of what he saw on the European battlefields. Honestly, simply, without unnecessary emotions, but with merciless cruelty, the author described all the horrors of war that irrevocably destroyed his generation. All All Quiet on the Western Front is a novel not about heroes, but about victims, to which Remarque counts both the dead and those young people who escaped the shells.

main characters works - yesterday's schoolchildren, as well as the author, who volunteered to the front (students of the same class - Paul Beumer, Albert Kropp, Müller, Leer, Franz Kemmerich), and their senior comrades in arms (Tjaden locksmith, peat worker Haye Westhus, peasant Detering, Stanislav Katchinsky, who knows how to get out of any situation) - not so much living and fighting as trying to escape from death. Young people who fell for the bait of teacher propaganda quickly realized that war is not an opportunity to valiantly serve their homeland, but the most ordinary slaughter in which there is nothing heroic and humane.

The first artillery bombardment immediately put everything in its place - the authority of the teachers collapsed, pulling the worldview that they instilled with them. On the battlefield, everything that the heroes had been taught at school turned out to be unnecessary: ​​physical laws were replaced by the laws of life, consisting in the knowledge of "How to light a cigarette in the rain and in the wind" and how best ... to kill - "It is best to hit with a bayonet in the stomach, not in the ribs, because the bayonet does not get stuck in the stomach".

The First World War divided not only peoples - it severed the internal connection between two generations: while "parents" they also wrote articles and made speeches about heroism, "children" passed through hospitals and dying; while "parents" they also put service to the state above all, "children" already knew that there is nothing stronger than the fear of death. In Paul's opinion, the realization of this truth did not make any of them "Neither a rebel, nor a deserter, nor a coward" but it gave them a terrible insight.

Internal changes in the heroes began to take place even at the stage of the barracks drill, which consisted of a senseless trump card, standing at attention, shagistica, taking on guard, turning right and left, clicking heels and constant abuse and nagging. Preparing for war made young men "Callous, distrustful, ruthless, vengeful, rude"- the war showed them that it was these qualities that they needed in order to survive. Barracks training worked out in future soldiers "A strong, always ready to be translated into action feeling of mutual solidarity"- the war turned him into "The only good" what she could give to humanity - "partnership" ... That's just from the former classmates at the time of the beginning of the novel, twelve people remained instead of twenty: seven had already been killed, four were wounded, one was in an insane asylum, and at the time of its completion - no one. Remarque left everyone on the battlefield, including his main character, Paul Beumer, whose philosophical reasoning constantly burst into the fabric of the narrative in order to explain to the reader the essence of what was happening, understandable only to a soldier.

War for the heroes "All Quiet on the Western Front" takes place in three artistic spaces: on the front line, at the front and in the rear. The worst of all is where shells are constantly bursting, and attacks are replaced by counterattacks, where flares burst "Rain of white, green and red stars" and the wounded horses scream so terribly, as if the whole world is dying with them. There, in this Ominous maelstrom that draws in a person, "Paralyzing all resistance", the only "Friend, brother and mother" for the soldier, the earth becomes, because it is in its folds, depressions and hollows that one can hide, obeying the only instinct possible on the battlefield - the instinct of the beast. Where life depends only on chance, and death lies in wait for a person at every step, everything is possible - to hide in coffins torn apart by bombs, kill your own people to save them from torment, regret the bread eaten by rats, listen for several days in a row how he screams in pain a dying man who cannot be found on the battlefield.

The rear part of the front is the borderline space between military and peaceful life: there is a place for simple human joys - reading newspapers, playing the map, talking with friends, but all this somehow passes under the sign of every soldier who has eaten into the blood "Coarsening"... Shared restroom, stealing food, waiting for comfortable shoes that are passed from hero to hero as they are injured and killed are completely natural things for those who are used to fighting for their existence.

The vacation given to Paul Beumer and his immersion in the space of peaceful existence finally convinces the hero that people like him will never be able to return back. Eighteen-year-olds, just getting to know life and beginning to love it, were forced to shoot at it and hit right in their heart. For older people who have strong ties with the past (wives, children, professions, interests), war is a painful, but still a temporary break in life, for the young it is a stormy stream that easily pulled them out of the shaky soil of parental love and children's rooms with bookshelves and carried it to no one knows where.

The meaninglessness of war, in which one person must kill another just because someone from above told them that they are enemies, she forever cut off faith in human aspirations and progress in yesterday's schoolchildren. They only believe in war, so they have no place in a peaceful life. They believe only in death, with which sooner or later everything ends, so they have no place in life as such. The “lost generation” has nothing to talk about with their parents, who know the war from rumors and newspapers; The “lost generation” will never pass on their sad experience to those who come after them. You can learn what war is only in the trenches; you can tell the whole truth about her only in a work of fiction.