Gas Attack!
Extract from ‘All Quiet on the
Western Front’ by Erich Maria Remarque
The wood vanishes, it is pounded, crushed, torn to pieces.
We must stay here in the graveyard.
The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack.
My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does
not reassure me: wounds don’t hurt till afterwards. I feel the arm all over. It
is grazed by sound. Now a crack on the skill, I begin to lose consciousness. Like
lightning the thought comes to me: Don’t faint! I sink down in the black broth
and immediately come to the top again. A splinter slashes into my helmet, but
has already travelled so far that it does not go
through. I wipe the mud out of my eyes. A hole is torn up front of me. Shells
hardly ever land in the same hole twice, I’ll get into it. With one lunge, I
shoot as flat as a fish over the ground: there it whistles again, quickly I
crouch together, claw for cover, feel something on the left, shove in beside
it, it gives way, I groan, the earth leaps, the blast thunders in my ears, I creep
under the yielding thing, cover myself with it, draw it over me, it is wood,
cloth, cover, cover, miserable cover against the whizzing splinters.
I open my eyes – my fingers grasp a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? I yell to him – no answer – a dead man. My
hand groups farther, splinters of wood – now I remember again that we are lying
in the graveyard.
But the shelling is stronger than everything. It wipes out
the sensibilities, I merely crawl still further under the coffin, it shall protect me, though Death himself lies in it.
Before me gapes the shell-hole. I grasp it with my eyes as
with fists. With one leap I must be in it. Then I get a smack in the face, a
hand clamps on to my shoulders – has the dead man waked up? – The hand shakes
me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into the face of Katczinsky, he has his mouth wide
open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes near, in a momentary
lull his voice reaches me; ‘Gas – Gaas – Gaaas – Pass it on.’
I grab for my gas-mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think nothing but this: That fellow there
must know: Gaas – Gaas –
I call, I lean towards him, I swipe at him with the satchel,
he doesn’t see – once again, again – he merely ducks – it’s a recruit – I look
at Kat desperately, he has his mask on – I pull out mine, too, my helmet falls
to one side, it slips over my face, I reach the man, his satchel is on the side
nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head, he understands, I let go
and with a jump drop into the shell hole.
The dull thud of the gas-shells mingles with the crashes of
the high explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions, gongs, and metal
clappers, warning everyone – Gas – Gas – Gaas.
Someone plumps down behind me, another. I wipe the goggles
of my mask clear of the moist breath. It is Kat, Kropp
and someone else. All four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and
breathe as lightly as possible
These first minutes with the mask decide between life and
death. It is air-tight? I remember the awful sights in the hospital: the gas
patients who in day-long suffocation cough up their burnt lungs in clots.
Cautiously, the mouth applied to the valve, I breathe. The
gas still creeps over the ground and sinks into our shell-hole and lolls there obscenely.
I nudge Kat, it is better to crawl out and lie on top than to stay where the
gas collects most. But we don’t get as far as that; a second bombardment
begins. It is no longer as though shells roared; it is the earth itself raging.
With a crash something black bears down on us. It lands
close beside us; a coffin thrown up.
I see Kat move and I crawl across. The coffin has hit the
fourth man in our hole on his out-stretched arm. He tries to tear off his
gas-mask with the other hand. Kropp seizes him just
in time, twists the hand sharply behind his back and holds it fast.
Kat and I proceed to free the wounded arm. The coffin lid is
loose and bursts open, we are easily able to pull it off, we toss the corpse
out, it slides down to the bottom of the shell-hole, then
we try to loosen the under-part.
Fortunately the man swoons and Kopp is able to help us. We
no longer have to be careful but work away till the coffin gives with a sigh
before the spade that we have dug in under it.
It has grown lighter. Kat takes a piece of the lid, places
it under the shattered arm and we wrap all our bandages around it. For the
moment we can do no more,
Inside the gas-mask my head booms and roars – it is nigh bursting.
My lungs are tight, they breathe always the same hot, used up air, the veins on my temples are swollen. I feel I am
suffocating.
A grey light filters through onto us. I climb out over the
edge of the shell-hole. In the dirty twilight lie s a leg torn clean off; the
boot is quite whole, I take that all in at a glance. Now something stands a few
yards distant. I polish the windows, in my excitement they are immediately
dimmed again. I peer through them, the man there no
longer wears his mask.
I wait some seconds – he has not collapsed – he looks round
and makes a few paces – rattling in my throat I tear my mask off too and fall
down, the air streams into me like cold water, my eyes are bursting the wave
sweeps over me and extinguishes me.