Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Erich Remarque, not me.

The quotes at the beginning and the end are taken from the book.

"'You are not related then?'

No, we were not related. No, we were not related.

So I walk? Have I feet still? I raise my eyes, I let them move round, and turn myself with them, one circle, one circle, and I stand in the midst. All is as usual. Only the Militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky has died.

Then I know nothing more."

* * *

They have all left me now. Kemmerich was the first to die. Haie and Tjaden followed. Albert, Leer, Muller, Berger, Detering. And Kat. My comrade, my friend, my brother.

I envy them, for they are together, but I am alone. I should feel lucky to be alive, but I do not.

The shelling slows, then ceases altogether. I make my way back to camp, although I do not remember the journey. A delivery of supplies arrived minutes before I did. Workers serve fresh bread and fresh rumors of treaties and peace. Everyone's spirits are lifted.

Someone passes me loaf of brown bread and a sliver of cheese. It has been weeks since I had fresh bread. I bite into it, but taste nothing. The soldier next to me has already gulped down his meal, and I hand him the rest of mine.

My heart is as cold and lifeless as the earth on which I sit.

* * *

We have been sent back to the front. My fellow soldiers whisper nervously, they are mostly new recruits. The lorry takes us as far as it can before the mud becomes too deep. We wade through to get the rest of the way.

A shell explodes overhead and out of habit I dive for cover in a mud fill hole.

A young soldier falls in after me. He was not as quick. A piece of shrapnel stuck in his arm, blood streams out, settling in a crimson puddle at the bottom of the crater.

We cannot leave our shelter, the bombardment is too intense. I crawl beside him.

He sobs, "I don't want to die! Don't let me die!"

"You won't die. This is barely a scratch."

He is very pale, I worry he might faint. I find his tourniquet and tie it above the wound. He moans in pain.

I try to keep him talking: to keep him from passing out. He talks about home, about his friends, about his family. About life. He still has them; he has only been a soldier a short time. It does no good. His words slur then cease.

He still breathes, short and shallow. I must carry him back to the aid station. My stomach squeezes with apprehension. I have already killed one man this way. Will I kill another? I do not want to, but it must be done.

The shelling stops. I lift my head out of the crater to check if we can leave. I hear the rumble before I can see the plane. It flies low, grazing the tops of our heads. I throw myself against the ground and brace for the round of bombs that will follow. Nothing happens.

I lift my head. A deadly yellow mist creeps slowly towards me. I crawl upwards, pulling on my gas mask. I must reach higher ground.

I glance back. The wounded soldier lies behind me. I see the cozy home he described, I see his laughing friends, I see his anxious mother. There is not much time. It is impossible to work with a mask on; I throw mine to the ground, knowing there may not be time to put it back on. If one of us is to live, it should be the one that still knows how.

His mask is not hard to find, we always keep them convenient. I manage to get it over his fair hair as the noxious mist surrounds us. Is it too late? There is no way to know.

My eyes burn. I fumble with my own mask and get it on. I was too slow. It feels like I inhaled fire. I suffocate inside my mask, wheezing, hacking, trying not to wretch for then I would surely die. The world spins round, I collapse upon it. My burned lungs crave air, but the deadly haze engulfs me.

This is the end. I am going to die.

I dig my fingers into the earth. My hand brushes against something. Even in my present state, this discovery surprises me. It is a bush, dry and prickly. Surrounded by death in all its ugly forms, it clings to life.

Life! I realize I do not want to die.

Life! I crawl forward along the ground, I must get up, out of the crater.

Life! I reach the top, the air is clearing.

I tear off my mask then gasp for air. My chest heaves, my mouth is parched, my head throbs, but I live.

There are voices. Do they speak to me?

"Are you okay?"

"Don't worry; we'll take good care of you."

"You'll be fine."

Strong arms lift me up. I am alive.

* * *

"I have fourteen days rest, because I have swallowed a bit of gas; in a little garden I sit the whole day long in the sun. The armistice is coming soon, I believe it now too. Then we will go home."