He wants me to tell him about the front; he is curious in a way that I find stupid and distressing; I no longer have any real contact with him. There is nothing he likes more than just hearing about it. I realize he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I would do it willingly$$$ but it is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them. What would become of us if everything that happens out there were quite clear to us?

A man dreams of a miracle and wakes up to loaves of bread.

And this I know: all these things that now$$$ while we are still in the war$$$ sink down in us like a stone$$$ after the war shall waken again$$$ and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.

There were thousands of Kantoreks$$$ all of whom were convinced that they were acting for the best—in a way that cost them nothing. And that is why they let us down so badly. …in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of authority$$$ 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.

I glance at my boots. They are big and clumsy$$$ the breeches are tucked into them$$$ and standing up one looks well-built and powerful in those great drainpipes. But when we go bathing and strip$$$ suddenly we have slender legs again and slight shoulders. We are no longer soldiers but little more than boys; no one would believe that we could carry packs. It is a strange moment when we stand naked; then we become civilians$$$ and almost feel ourselves to be so. When bathing Franz Kemmerich looked as slight and frail as a child. There he lies now -- buy why?

We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished$$$ then embittered$$$ and finally indifferent$$$ we recognised that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush$$$ not intelligence but the system$$$ not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm$$$ but they have done everything to knock that out of us.

This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession$$$ and least of all an adventure$$$ for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who$$$ even though they may have escaped shells$$$ were destroyed by the war.

From the earth$$$ from the air$$$ sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. 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 her security; she shelters him and releases him fro ten seconds to live$$$ to run$$$ ten seconds of life; receives him again and often for ever.

The first bombardment showed us our mistake$$$ and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces.

Beside us lies a fair-headed recruit in utter terror. He has buried his face in his hands$$$ his helmet has fallen off. I fish hold of it and try to put it back on his head. He looks up$$$ pushes the helmet off and like a child creeps under my arm$$$ his head close to my breast. The little shoulders heave. Shoulders just like Kemmerich's. I let him be.