All Quiet on the Western Front: Chapters 1–2

At the head of the queue of course were the hungriest—little Albert Kropp, the clearest thinker among us and therefore only a lance-corporal; Müller, who still carries his school textbooks with him, dreams of examinations, and during a bombardment mutters propositions in physics; Leer, who wears a full beard and has a preference for the girls from officers’ brothels.

The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him.

“It doesn’t cost you anything! Anyone would think the quartermaster’s store belonged to him! And now get on with it, you old blubber-sticker, and don’t you miscount either.”

Since then we have learned better than to be shy about such trifling immodesties.

We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled "convenience.”

I have always taken good care to keep out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets.

But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would have been ostracized.

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

He looks ghastly, yellow and wan.

They are fine English boots of soft, yellow leather which reach to the knees and lace up all the way — they are things to be coveted.

“Done for,” said Müller emphatically.

All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it.

But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich’s circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them.

After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe.

With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servants — salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details.