Ch.1, p. 12.
“We were all at once terribly alone; and alone we must see it through.”
Ch. 4, p. 54.
“To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long
and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only
friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and security; she shelters him and gives
him a new lease of ten seconds of life, receives him again and often for ever.”
Ch. 6, p. 115
“We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our hunted 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.”
Ch. 8, p. 195.
“A word of command has made these silent figures our enemies; a word of command might transform them
into our friends.”
Ch. 10, p. 266.
“A hospital alone shows what war is.”
Ch. 7, p. 176
“A terrible feeling of foreignness suddenly rises up in me. I cannot find my way back, I am
shut out though I entreat earnestly and put forth all my strength.”
"For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity . . . to
the future . . . in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds
with a greater insight and a more humane wisdom. But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We had to recognize that
our generation was more to be trusted than theirs. . . . The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world
as they had taught it to us broke in pieces."
"At the sound of the first droning of the shells we rush back, in one part of our being, a thousand years.
By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it is far quicker, much more
sure, less fallible, than consciousness. . . . It is this other, this second sight in us, that has thrown us to the ground
and saved us, without our knowing how. . . . We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers—we reach the zone where the
front begins and become on the instant human animals."
"Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line . . . so we turn into wags and loafers when we are
resting. . . . We want to live at any price; so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they may be ornamental
enough in peacetime, would be out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying . . . Martens has no legs anymore,
Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead . . . it is a damnable business, but what has it to do with
us now—we live."
"Comrade, I did not want to kill you. . . . But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived
in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. . . . I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle;
now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell
us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death,
and the same dying and the same agony—Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?"