【有声英语文学名著】西线无战事（7）

All Quiet on the Western Front
by Erich Maria Remarque
During the day we loaf about and make war on the rats. Ammunition 1 and hand-grenades become more plentiful 2. We overhaul 3 the bayonets--that is to say, the ones that have a saw on the blunt edge. If the fellows over there catch a man with one of those he's killed at sight. In the next sector 4 some of our men were found whose noses were cut off and their eyes poked 5 out with their own saw-bayonets. Their mouths and noses were stuffed with sawdust so that they suffocated 6.
Some of the recruits have bayonets of this sort; we take them away and give them the ordinary kind.
But the bayonet has practically lost its importance. It is usually the fashion now to charge with bombs and spades only. The sharpened spade is a more handy and many-sided weapon; not only can it be used for jabbing a man under the chin, but it is much better for striking with because of its greater weight; and if one hits between the neck and shoulder it easily cleaves 7 as far down as the chest. The bayonet frequently jams on the thrust and then a man has to kick hard on the other fellow's belly 8 to pull it out again; and in the interval 9 he may easily get one himself. And what's more the blade often gets broken off.
At night they send over gas. We expect the attack to follow and lie with our masks on, ready to tear them off as soon as the first shadow appears.
Dawn approaches without anything happening--only the everlasting 10, nerve-wracking roll behind the enemy lines, trains, trains, lorries, lorries; but what are they concentrating? Our artillery 11 fires on it continually, but still it does not cease.
We have tired faces and avoid each other's eyes. "It will be like the Somme," says Kat gloomily.
"There we were shelled steadily 12 for seven days and nights." Kat has lost all his fun since we have been here, which is bad, for Kat is an old front-hog, and can smell what is coming. Only Tjaden seems pleased with the good rations 13 and the rum; he thinks we might even go back to rest without anything happening at all.
It almost looks like it. Day after day passes. At night I squat 14 in the listening-post. Above me the rockets and parachute-lights shoot up and float down again. I am cautious and tense, my heart thumps 15. My eyes turn again and again to the luminous 16 dial of my watch; the hands will not budge 17.
Sleep hangs on my eyelids 18, I work my toes in my boots in order to keep awake. Nothing happens till I am relieved;--only the everlasting rolling over there. Gradually we grow calmer and play skat and poker 19 continually. Perhaps we will be lucky.
All day the sky is hung with observation balloons. There is a rumour 20 that the enemy are going to put tanks over and use low-flying planes for the attack. But that interests us less than what we hear of the new flame-throwers.
We wake up in the middle of the night. The earth booms. Heavy fire is falling on us. We crouch 21 into corners. We distinguish shells of every calibre.
Each man lays hold of his things and looks again every minute to reassure 22 himself that they are still there. The dug-out heaves, the night roars and flashes. We look at each other in the momentary 23 flashes of light, and with pale faces and pressed lips shake our heads.
 
Every man is aware of the heavy shells tearing down the parapet, rooting up the embankment and demolishing 24 the upper layers of concrete. When a shell lands in the trench 25 we note how the hollow, furious blast is like a blow from the paw of a raging beast of prey 26. Already by morning a few of the recruits are green and vomiting 27. They are too inexperienced.
Slowly the grey light trickles 28 into the post and pales the flashes of the shells. Morning is come.
The explosion of mines mingles 29 with the gunfire. That is the most dementing convulsion of all. The whole region where they go up becomes one grave.
The reliefs go out, the observers stagger in, covered with dirt, and trembling. One lies down in silence in the corner and eats, the other, an older man of the new draught 31, sobs 32; twice he has been flung over the parapet by the blast of the explosions without getting any more than shell-shock.
The recruits are eyeing him. We must watch them, these things are catching 33, already some lips begin to quiver. It is good that it is growing daylight; perhaps the attack will come before noon.
The bombardment does not diminish. It is falling in the rear too. As far as one can see spout 34 fountains of mud and iron. A wide belt is being raked.
The attack does not come, but the bombardment continues. We are gradually benumbed.
Hardly a man speaks. We cannot make ourselves understood.
Our trench is almost gone. At many places it is only eighteen inches high, it is broken by holes, and craters 35, and mountains of earth. A shell lands square in front of our post. At once it is dark.
We are buried and must dig ourselves out. After an hour the entrance is clear again, and we are calmer because we have had something to do.
Our Company Commander scrambles 37 in and reports that two dugouts are gone. The recruits calm themselves when they see him. He says that an attempt will be made to bring up food this evening.
That sounds reassuring 38. No one had thought of it except Tjaden. Now the outside world seems to draw a little nearer: if food can be brought up, think the recruits, then it can't really be so bad.
We do not disabuse 39 them; we know that food is as important as ammunition and only for that reason must be brought up.
But it miscarries. A second party goes out, and it also turns back. Finally Kat tries, and even he reappears without accomplishing anything. No one gets through, not even a fly is small enough to get through such a barrage 40.
We pull in our belts tighter and chew every mouthful three times as long. Still the food does not last out; we are damnably hungry. I take out a scrap 41 of bread, eat the white and put the crust back in my knapsack; from time to time I nibble 42 at it.
 
 
The night is unbearable 43. We cannot sleep, but stare ahead of us and doze 44. Tjaden regrets that we wasted the gnawed 45 pieces of bread on the rats. We would gladly have them again to eat now. We are short of water, too, but not seriously yet.
Towards morning, while it is still dark, there is some excitement. Through the entrance rushes in a swarm 46 of fleeing rats that try to storm the walls. Torches light up the confusion. Everyone yells and curses and slaughters 48. The madness and despair of many hours unloads itself in this outburst.
Faces are distorted, arms strike out, the beasts scream; we just stop in time to avoid attacking one another.
The onslaught has exhausted 49 us. We lie down to wait again. It is a marvel 50 that our post has had no casualties so far. It is one of the less deep dug-outs.
A corporal creeps in; he has a loaf of bread with him. Three people have had the luck to get through during the night and bring some provisions. They say the bombardment extends undiminished as far as the artillery lines. It is a mystery where the enemy gets all his shells.
We wait and wait. By midday what I expected happens. One of the recruits has a fit. I have been watching him for a long time, grinding his teeth and opening and shutting his fists. These hunted, protruding 51 eyes, we know them too well. During the last few hours he has had merely the appearance of calm. He had collapsed 52 like a rotten tree.
Now he stands up, stealthily creeps across the floor hesitates a moment and then glides 53 towards the door. I intercept 54 him and say: "Where are you going?"
"I'll be back in a minute," says he, and tries to push past me.
"Wait a bit, the shelling will stop soon."
He listens for a moment and his eyes become clear. Then again he has the glowering 55 eyes of a mad dog, he is silent, he shoves me aside.
"One minute, lad," I say. Kat notices. Just as the recruit shakes me off Kat jumps in and we hold him.
Then he begins to rave 30: "Leave me alone, let me go out, I will go out!"
He won't listen to anything and hits out, his mouth is wet and pours out words, half choked, meaningless words. It is a case of claustrophobia, he feels as though he is suffocating 56 here and wants to get out at any price. If we let him go he would run about everywhere regardless of cover.
He is not the first.
Though he raves 57 and his eyes roll, it can't be helped, we have to give him a hiding to bring him to his senses. We do it quickly and mercilessly, and at last he sits down quietly. The others have turned pale; let's hope it deters 58 them. This bombardment is too much for the poor devils, they have been sent straight from a recruiting-depot into a barrage that is enough to turn an old soldier's hair grey.
After this affair the sticky, close atmosphere works more than ever on our nerves. We sit as if in our graves waiting only to be closed in.
Suddenly it howls and flashes terrifically, the dug-out cracks in all its joints 59 under a direct hit, fortunately only a light one that the concrete blocks are able to withstand. It rings metallically 60, the walls reel, rifles, helmets, earth, mud, and dust fly everywhere. Sulphur fumes 61 pour in.
If we were in one of those light dug-outs that they have been building lately instead of this deeper one, none of us would be alive.
But the effect is bad enough even so. The recruit starts to rave again and two others follow suit.
One jumps up and rushes out, we have trouble with the other two. I start after the one who escapes and wonder whether to shoot him in the leg--then it shrieks 62 again, I fling myself down and when I stand up the wall of the trench is plastered with smoking splinters, lumps of flesh, and bits of uniform. I scramble 36 back.
The first recruit seems actually to have gone insane. He butts 64 his head against the wall like a goat. We must try to-night to take him to the rear. Meanwhile we bind 65 him, but in such a way that in case of attack he can be released at once.
Kat suggests a game of skat: it is easier when a man has something to do. But it is no use, we listen for every explosion that comes close, miscount the tricks, and fail to follow suit. We have to give it up. We sit as though in a boiler 66 that is being belaboured from without on all sides.
Night again. We are deadened by the strain--a deadly tension that scrapes along one's spine 67 like a gapped knife. Our legs refuse to move, our hands tremble, our bodies are a thin skin stretched painfully over repressed madness, over an almost irresistible 68, bursting roar. We have neither flesh nor muscles any longer, we dare not look at one another for fear of some incalculable thing. So we shut our teeth--it will end--it will end--perhaps we will come through.
Suddenly the nearer explosions cease. The shelling continues but it has lifted and falls behind us, our trench is free. We seize the hand-grenades, pitch them out in front of the dug-out and jump after them. The bombardment has stopped and a heavy barrage now falls behind us. The attack has come.
No one would believe that in this howling waste there could still be men; but steel helmets now appear on all sides out of the trench, and fifty yards from us a machine-gun is already in position and barking.
The wire entanglements 69 are torn to pieces. Yet they offer some obstacle. We see the storm-troops coming. Our artillery opens fire. Machine-guns rattle 70, rifles crack. The charge works its way across. Haie and Kropp begin with the hand-grenades. They throw as fast as they can, others pass them, the handles with the strings 71 already pulled. Haie throws seventy-five yards, Kropp sixty, it has been measured, the distance is important. The enemy as they run cannot do much before they are within forty yards.
We recognise the smooth distorted faces, the helmets: they are French. They have already suffered heavily when they reach the remnants of the barbed wire entanglements. A whole line has gone down before our machine-guns; then we have a lot of stoppages and they come nearer.
I see one of them, his face upturned, fall into a wire cradle. His body collapses 72, his hands remain suspended as though he were praying. Then his body drops clean away and only his hands with the stumps 73 of his arms, shot off, now hang in the wire.
The moment we are about to retreat three faces rise up from the ground in front of us. Under one of the helmets a dark pointed 74 beard and two eyes that are fastened on me. I raise my hand, but I cannot throw into those strange eyes; for one moment the whole slaughter 47 whirls like a circus round me, and these two eyes alone are motionless; then the head rises up, a hand, a movement, and my hand-grenade flies through the air and into him.
We make for the rear, pull wire cradles into the trench and leave bombs behind us with the strings pulled, which ensures us a fiery 75 retreat. The machine-guns are already firing from the next position.
We have become wild beasts. We do not fight, we defend ourselves against annihilation. It is not against men that we fling our bombs, what do we know of men in this moment when Death is hunting us down--now, for the first time in three days we can see his face, now for the first time in three days we can oppose him; we feel a mad anger. No longer do we lie helpless, waiting on the scaffold, we can destroy and kill, to save ourselves, to save ourselves and to be revenged.
We crouch behind every corner, behind every barrier of barbed wire, and hurl 76 heaps of explosives at the feet of the advancing enemy before we run. The blast of the hand-grenades impinges powerfully on our arms and legs; crouching 77 like cats we run on, overwhelmed by this wave that bears us along, that fills us with ferocity, turns us into thugs, into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb at him.
The forward trenches 78 have been abandoned. Are they still trenches? They are blown to pieces, annihilated--there are only broken bits of trenches, holes linked by cracks, nests of craters, that is all. But the enemy's casualties increase. They did not count on so much resistance.
 
It is nearly noon. The sun blazes hotly, the sweat stings in our eyes, we wipe it off on our sleeves and often blood with it. At last we reach a trench that is in a somewhat better condition. It is manned and ready for the counter-attack, it receives us. Our guns open in full blast and cut off the enemy attack.
The lines behind us stop. They can advance no farther. The attack is crushed by our artillery. We watch. The fire lifts a hundred yards and we break forward. Beside me a lance-corporal has his head torn off. He runs a few steps more while the blood spouts 79 from his neck like a fountain.
It does not come quite to hand-to-hand fighting; they are driven back. We arrive once again at our shattered trench and pass on beyond it.
Oh, this turning back again! We reach the shelter of the reserves and yearn 80 to creep in and disappear;--but instead we must turn round and plunge 81 again into the horror. If we were not automata at that moment we would continue lying there, exhausted, and without will. But we are swept forward again, powerless, madly savage 82 and raging; we will kill, for they are still our mortal enemies, their rifles and bombs are aimed against us, and if we don't destroy them, they will destroy us.
The brown earth, the torn, blasted earth, with a greasy 83 shine under the sun's rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons 84, our gasping 85 is the scratching of a quill 86, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor--thus we stagger forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulsed and dead soldiers, who lie there--"it can't be helped--who cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them.
We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our glance lights on the form of some other man. We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic, are still able to run and to kill.
A young Frenchman lags behind, he is overtaken, he puts up his hands, in one he still holds his revolver--does he mean to shoot or to give himself!--a blow from a spade cleaves through his face. A second sees it and tries to run farther; a bayonet jabs into his back. He leaps in the air, his arms thrown wide, his mouth wide open, yelling; he staggers, in his back the bayonet quivers. A third throws away his rifle, cowers 87 down with his hands before his eyes. He is left behind with a few other prisoners to carry off the wounded.
Suddenly in the pursuit we reach the enemy line.
We are so close on the heels of our retreating enemies that we reach it almost at the same time as they. In this way we suffer few casualties. A machine-gun barks, but is silenced with a bomb.
Nevertheless, the couple of seconds has sufficed to give us five stomach wounds. With the butt 63 of his rifle Kat smashes to pulp 88 the face of one of the unwounded machine-gunners. We bayonet the others before they have time to get out their bombs. Then thirstily we drink the water they have for cooling the gun.
 
Everywhere wire-cutters are snapping, planks 89 are thrown across the entanglements, we jump through the narrow entrances into the trenches. Haie strikes his spade into the neck of a gigantic Frenchman and throws the first hand-grenade; we duck behind a breastwork for a few seconds, then the straight bit of trench ahead of us is empty. The next throw whizzes obliquely 90 over the corner and clears a passage; as we run past we toss handfuls down into the dug-outs, the earth shudders 91, it crashes, smokes and groans 92, we stumble over slippery lumps of flesh, over yielding bodies; I fall into an open belly on which lies a clean, new officer's cap.
The fight ceases. We lose touch with the enemy. We cannot stay here long but must retire under cover of our artillery to our own position. No sooner do we know this than we dive into the nearest dug-outs, and with the utmost haste seize on whatever provisions we can see, especially the tins of corned beef and butter, before we clear out.
We get back pretty well. There is no further attack by the enemy. We lie for an hour panting and resting before anyone speaks. We are so completely played out that in spite of our great hunger we do not think of the provisions. Then gradually we become something like men again.
The corned beef over there is famous along the whole front. Occasionally it has been the chief reason for a flying raid on our part, for our nourishment 93 is generally very bad; we have a constant hunger.
We bagged five tins altogether. The fellows over there are well looked after; they fare magnificently, as against us, poor starving wretches 94, with our turnip 95 jam; they can get all the meat they want. Haie has scored a thin loaf of white French bread, and stuck it in behind his belt like a spade. It is a bit bloody 96 at one corner, but that can be cut off.
It is a good thing we have something decent to eat at last; we still have a use for all our strength.
Enough to eat is just as valuable as a good dugout; it can save our lives; that is the reason we are so greedy for it. Tjaden has captured two water-bottles full of cognac. We pass them round.