Erich remark on the western front, no change. All Quiet on the Western Front - Remarque Erich

Rated the book

Today we would wander around our native places like visiting tourists. A curse hangs over us - the cult of facts. We distinguish between things like traders and understand necessity like butchers. We stopped being careless, we became terribly indifferent. Let us assume that we remain alive; but will we live?
We are helpless, like abandoned children, and experienced, like old people, we have become callous, and pitiful, and superficial - it seems to me that we will never be reborn.

I think that this quote can say everything that I experienced... All the misfortune of the lost generation of the war. And it doesn’t matter what kind of war it is, the important thing is that after it you lose yourself in the world.
A very powerful piece. This is the first time I've read about a war that is told from the perspective of a German soldier. A soldier who was yesterday's schoolboy, who loved books and life. Who was not broken by difficulties - he did not become a coward and a traitor, he fought honestly, difficulties did not break him, he just got lost in this war.. One of his friends said correctly - let the generals go one on one, and from the outcome of this fight they would determine would be the winner.
How many destinies... How many people. How scary it is.

We see people who are still alive, although they have no head; we see soldiers running although both their feet have been cut off; they hobble on their stumps with bone fragments sticking out to the nearest crater; one corporal crawls two kilometers on his hands, dragging his broken legs behind him; another goes to the dressing station, pressing the spreading intestines to his stomach with his hands; we see people without lips, without a lower jaw, without a face; we pick up a soldier who, for two hours, pressed his teeth against an artery in his arm so as not to bleed; The sun rises, night comes, shells whistle, life is over.

How attached I became to Remarque’s heroes! How they did not lose heart during the war, maintained a sense of humor, fought hunger and supported each other. How they wanted to live.. Yesterday’s boys who had to grow up so quickly. Who had to see death, who had to kill. Of course, it is difficult for them to adapt to the other life from which they came straight into war.
And how Remarque vividly describes this through the mouth of the main character. And you begin to understand that for some people human life is worth nothing... But Paul, sitting in a trench with a killed French soldier, thought about all this. I thought that they were defending their fatherland, but the French were also defending their fatherland. Someone is waiting for everyone. They have a place to return to. But will they be able to live later?
The war constantly echoes in the souls of those who went through it. No matter what kind of war it is, it always cripples destinies. And those who survived - the winners and the vanquished - suffer, and the relatives and friends of those who did not return from the war suffer. And for a long time they dream, shuddering at every rustle.
This is a very difficult piece. And we should collect all these books about wars in different times, in different countries and give them to read to all those who unleash this bloodshed. Is something trembling in your chest? Will your heart hurt?
Don't know..

Rated the book

We are no longer young people. We are no longer going to take life by battle. We are fugitives. We are running from ourselves. From your life. We were eighteen years old, and we were just beginning to love the world and life; we had to shoot at them. The first shell that exploded hit our heart. We are cut off from rational activity, from human aspirations, from progress. We don't believe in them anymore. We believe in war.

I usually give a book a perfect rating if it's a compelling read or simply blows my mind. Neither of these happened here. The novel was read normally, nothing more, everything was calm and without any special emotions, I didn’t learn anything new. But when the last pages passed, I felt somehow strange. And after that the hand was no longer raised to give a four. Because damn, this is an insanely powerful book.

World War I. These guys were students just yesterday. They found themselves thrown out of life straight into the trenches. Yesterday's boys, who turned into old men under machine-gun fire, left the care of their parents, but did not have time to fall in love, did not have time to choose a path in life. Young Paul loses his friends one by one, death becomes part of everyday life, but is it so scary? Much more terrible is the question of what to do when peace comes (if it comes!). Will any of them be able to live on? Or is it better that it all ends here on the battlefield?

The best books about war are those written in this language. Dry, ordinary. The hero-storyteller is not trying to squeeze a tear out of you, scare you, or make you feel sorry for him. He simply talks about his life. And it is behind this calm story that the true horror of war is shown, when things terrible in their cruelty turn into an ordinary weekday.

But what distinguishes this novel from other similar works is not the actual description of military operations and inevitable tragedies, but the frightening psychological atmosphere. The young soldiers are still alive, but at heart they are actually dead. Yesterday’s children, they don’t understand what to do with life, if, of course, they stay alive, they don’t understand why they are fighting. They defend their fatherland, but their French enemies also defend theirs. Who needs this war? What's the point?
But the main question is: do these guys have a future? Alas, there is no future, but the past has dissolved, sunk into oblivion and seems so funny, unreal and alien...

Shells, clouds of gases and tank divisions - injury, suffocation, death.
Dysentery, flu, typhus - pain, fever, death.
Trenches, infirmary, mass grave - there are no other possibilities.

A very, very powerful thing. And when you read, you don’t feel anything like that, the whole enormity of this small book grows gradually behind the pages, but to such an extent that in the end it looms menacingly over your consciousness.

Rated the book

I really respect books about war and, despite all their severity, I definitely read one or two a year. Many people wonder why they should torture themselves and read about blood, guts and severed limbs, of which there is a lot in this work. I agree that such descriptions do not add happiness, but I would not dwell on them either; in war this is not the main thing and this is not the worst thing. It is much more terrible to lose your human appearance, dignity, to break under pressure and torture, to betray your loved ones for the sake of a piece of bread or an extra minute of life. This is what you need to be afraid of. Any military action a priori presupposes a “meat grinder,” the description of which is intended to prove that war is contrary to human nature. War is like a Russian revolt - “senseless and merciless.” And it doesn’t matter at all who started it and why. Despite the fact that the heroes of Remarque’s book are German soldiers (and as you remember, it was Germany that started both world wars), this makes them no less sorry.

Not only people suffer from war... well-known words come to mind: it seems that the earth itself is groaning, drenched in blood. For example, I still get chills when I remember the episode with the wounded horses.

The screams continue. These are not people, people cannot scream so terribly.
Kat says:
Wounded horses.
I've never heard horses scream before, and I can't believe it. It is the long-suffering world itself that groans; in these groans one can hear all the torments of living flesh, burning, terrifying pain. We turned pale. Detering stands up to his full height:
Monsters, flayers! Yes, shoot them!
Detering is a peasant and knows a lot about horses. He's excited. And the shooting, as if on purpose, almost completely died down. This makes their screams heard even more clearly. We no longer understand where they come from in this suddenly quiet, silvery world; invisible, ghostly, they are everywhere, somewhere between heaven and earth, they are becoming more and more piercing, it seems there will be no end to this - Detering is already beside himself with rage and shouts loudly:
Shoot them, shoot them, damn you!

This moment penetrates to the depths of your soul, like an icy January wind, you begin to appreciate life more deeply. The main thing that I learned from this book by Remarque is that when the news once again talks about the war in Iraq, Afghanistan, and anywhere, this is not an empty ringing, behind these familiar and seemingly tedious reports hide the eyes of real people who All these horrors are seen every day, who, like you and me, cannot simply isolate themselves from what is happening - not open a book or turn on the TV. They cannot escape from blood and horror, for them this is not fiction or an exaggeration of the author, this is their life, which the big and important men who gave the order to drop the bombs decided for them.

My verdict: be sure to read and always remember that war is not a dry news report about the number of killed and wounded somewhere in the Middle East, where they are constantly at war, this can happen to anyone and it is, indeed, very scary.

Erich Maria Remarque

No change on the Western Front

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is only an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; Now our stomachs are full of beans and meat, and we all walk around full and satisfied. Even for dinner, everyone got a full pot; In addition, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This hasn’t happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his crimson, like a tomato, bald head himself offers us more food; he waves the ladle, inviting passers-by, and pours out hefty portions to them. He still won’t empty his “squeaker,” and this drives him into despair. Tjaden and Müller obtained several basins from somewhere and filled them to the brim - in reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Müller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But the most important thing is that the smoke was also given out in double portions. Each person had ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two bars of chewing tobacco. Overall, pretty decent. I exchanged Katchinsky’s cigarettes for my tobacco, so now I have forty in total. You can last one day.

But, strictly speaking, we are not entitled to all this at all. The management is not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to relieve another unit. It was quite calm in our area, so by the day of our return the captain received allowances according to the usual distribution and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day, the British suddenly brought up their heavy “meat grinders”, most unpleasant things, and beat them on our trenches for so long that we suffered heavy losses, and only eighty people returned from the front line.

We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on our bunks to first get a good night's sleep; Katchinsky is right: the war would not be so bad if only one could sleep more. You never get much sleep on the front line, and two weeks drag on for a long time.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already midday. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at the “squeaker” dear to our hearts, which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always had the biggest appetite: short Albert Kropp, the brightest head in our company and, probably for this reason, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams; under hurricane fire he crams the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a full beard and has a weakness for girls from brothels for officers; he swears that there is an army order obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and to take a bath before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above; the fourth is me, Paul Bäumer. All four were nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a mechanic, a frail young man of the same age as us, the most gluttonous soldier in the company - for food he sits thin and slender, and after eating, he stands up pot-bellied, like a sucked bug; Haye Westhus, also our age, a peat worker who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our squad, a man with character, smart and cunning - he is forty years old, he has a sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders, and an extraordinary sense of smell about when the shelling will begin, where he can get hold of food and What's the best way to hide from your boss?

Our section headed the line that formed near the kitchen. We began to get impatient as the unsuspecting cook was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily:

Let everyone gather first.

Tjaden grinned:

And we are all here!

The cook still didn't notice anything:

Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

They are not on your payroll today! Some are in the infirmary, and some are in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was struck down. He was even shaken:

And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

This means that at least once we will eat our fill. Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tjaden. His face, sharp as a mouse, lit up, his eyes squinted slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded cook nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest:

And sausage too?

The cook nodded again with his head as purple as a tomato. Tjaden's jaw dropped:

And tobacco?

Well, yes, that's it.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will go to us! It will be - wait for it! - that’s right, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and said:

It won't work that way.

Now we, too, shook off our sleep and squeezed closer.

Hey you carrot, why won't it work? - asked Katchinsky.

Yes, because eighty is not one hundred and fifty!

“But we’ll show you how to do it,” Muller grumbled.

You’ll get the soup, so be it, but I’ll only give you bread and sausage for eighty,” Tomato continued to persist.

Katchinsky lost his temper:

I wish I could send you to the front line just once! You received food not for eighty people, but for the second company, that’s it. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, through his fault, lunch or dinner ended up in our trenches cold, very late, since even with the most insignificant fire he did not dare to move closer with his cauldron, and our food bearers had to crawl much further than theirs. brothers from other companies. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. Although he was as fat as a hamster, if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the very front.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and things would probably have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. Having learned what we were arguing about, he only said:

Yes, yesterday we had big losses...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

And the beans seem to be quite good.

The tomato nodded:

With lard and beef.

The lieutenant looked at us. He understood what we were thinking. In general, he understood a lot - after all, he himself came from our midst: he came to the company as a non-commissioned officer. He lifted the lid of the cauldron again and sniffed. As he left, he said:

Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions for everyone. Why should good things disappear?

Tomato's face took on a stupid expression. Tjaden danced around him:

It’s okay, it won’t hurt you! He imagines that he is in charge of the entire quartermaster service. Now get started, old rat, and make sure you don’t miscalculate!..

Get lost, hanged man! - Tomato hissed. He was ready to burst with anger; everything that happened could not fit into his head, he did not understand what was happening in this world. And as if wanting to show that now everything was the same to him, he himself distributed another half a pound of artificial honey to his brother.

Today turned out to be a good day indeed. Even the mail arrived; almost everyone received several letters and newspapers. Now we slowly wander to the meadow behind the barracks. Kropp carries under his arm a round lid from a barrel of margarine.

On the right edge of the meadow there is a large soldiers' latrine - a well-built structure under a roof. However, it is of interest only to recruits who have not yet learned to benefit from everything. We are looking for something better for ourselves. The fact is that here and there in the meadow there are single cabins intended for the same purpose. These are quadrangular boxes, neat, made entirely of boards, closed on all sides, with a magnificent, very comfortable seat. They have handles on the sides so the booths can be moved.

We move three booths together, put them in a circle and leisurely take our seats. We won't get up from our seats until two hours later.

I still remember how embarrassed we were at first, when we lived in the barracks as recruits and for the first time we had to use a common restroom. There are no doors, twenty people sit in a row, like on a tram. You can take one look at them, because a soldier must always be under surveillance.

Remarque Erich Maria.

No change on the Western Front. Return (collection)

No change on the Western Front

I

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; Now our stomachs are full of beans and meat, and we all walk around full and satisfied. Even for dinner, everyone got a full pot; On top of that, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This hasn’t happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his crimson, like a tomato, bald head himself offers us more food; he waves the ladle, inviting passers-by, and pours out hefty portions to them. He still won’t empty his “squeaker,” and this drives him into despair. Tjaden and Müller obtained several basins from somewhere and filled them to the brim - in reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Müller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But, strictly speaking, we are not entitled to all this at all. The management is not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already midday. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at the “squeaker” dear to our hearts, which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always had the biggest appetite: short Albert Kropp, the brightest head in our company and, probably for this reason, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams: under hurricane fire, he crams the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls from brothels for officers: he swears that there is an order in the army obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and to take a bath before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above; the fourth is me, Paul Bäumer.

All four were nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a mechanic, a frail young man of the same age as us, the most gluttonous soldier in the company - for food he sits thin and slender, and after eating, he stands up pot-bellied, like a sucked bug; Haye Westhus, also our age, a peat worker who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our squad, a man with character, smart and cunning - he is forty years old, he has a sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary sense of smell about when the shelling will begin, where you can get food and how It's best to hide from your superiors.

Our section headed the line that formed near the kitchen. We began to get impatient as the unsuspecting cook was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

- Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily:

- Let everyone gather first.

Tjaden grinned:

- And we are all here!

The cook still didn't notice anything:

- Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

- They are not on your payroll today! Some are in the infirmary, and some are in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was struck down. He was even shaken:

- And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

“That means we’ll eat our fill at least once.” Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tjaden. His face, sharp as a mouse, lit up, his eyes squinted slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

- Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded cook nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest:

- And sausage too?

The cook nodded again with his head as purple as a tomato. Tjaden's jaw dropped:

- And tobacco?

- Well, yes, that's it.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

- Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will go to us! It will be - just wait! – that’s right, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and said:

- It won’t work that way.

Now we, too, shook off our sleep and squeezed closer.

- Hey, carrot, why won’t it work? – asked Katchinsky.

- Yes, because eighty is not one hundred and fifty!

“But we’ll show you how to do it,” Muller grumbled.

“You’ll get the soup, so be it, but I’ll give you bread and sausage only for eighty,” Tomato continued to persist.

Katchinsky lost his temper:

“I wish I could send you to the front line just once!” You received food not for eighty people, but for the second company, that’s it. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, through his fault, lunch or dinner ended up in our trenches cold, very late, since even with the most insignificant fire he did not dare to move closer with his cauldron and our food bearers had to crawl much further than their brothers from other mouths. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. Even though he was as fat as a hamster, if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the very front.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and, probably, things would have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. Having learned what we were arguing about, he only said:

- Yes, yesterday we had big losses...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

– And the beans seem to be quite good.

The tomato nodded:

- With lard and beef.

- Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions for everyone. Why should good things disappear?

Tomato's face took on a stupid expression. Tjaden danced around him:

- It’s okay, this won’t hurt you! He imagines that he is in charge of the entire quartermaster service. Now get started, old rat, and make sure you don’t miscalculate!..

- Get lost, hanged man! - Tomato hissed. He was ready to burst with anger; everything that happened could not fit into his head, he did not understand what was happening in this world. And as if wanting to show that now everything was the same to him, he himself distributed another half a pound of artificial honey to his brother.

We move three booths together, put them in a circle and leisurely take our seats. We won't get up from our seats until two hours later.

I still remember how embarrassed we were at first, when we lived in the barracks as recruits and for the first time we had to use a common restroom. There are no doors, twenty people sit in a row, like on a tram. You can take one look at them - after all, a soldier must always be under surveillance.

Since then, we have learned to overcome not only our shyness, but also much more. Over time, we have become accustomed to not such things.

Here, in the fresh air, this activity gives us true pleasure. I don’t know why we were embarrassed to talk about these functions before - after all, they are as natural as food and drink. Perhaps it would not be worth talking about them especially if they did not play such a significant role in our lives and if their naturalness were not new to us - specifically for us, because for others it has always been an obvious truth.

For a soldier, the stomach and digestion constitute a special sphere that is closer to him than to all other people. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is borrowed from this sphere, and it is here that the soldier finds those colors with the help of which he can so richly and originally express both the greatest joy and the deepest indignation. No other dialect can be expressed more concisely and clearly. When we return home, our family and our teachers will be greatly surprised, but what can you do - everyone here speaks this language.

For us, all these bodily functions have regained their innocent character due to the fact that we involuntarily perform them in public. Moreover: we are so unaccustomed to seeing this as something shameful that the opportunity to do our business in a cozy atmosphere is regarded, I would say, as highly by us as a beautifully executed combination in skating 1
Skat is a card game common in Germany. – Note here and below. lane

With sure chances of winning. It is not for nothing that the expression “news from latrines” arose in the German language, which denotes all kinds of chatter; where else can a soldier chat if not in these corners, which replace his traditional place at a table in a pub?

Now we feel better than in the most comfortable toilet with white tiled walls. It may be clean there - that’s all; It's just good here.

Amazingly thoughtless hours... There is a blue sky above us. Brightly lit yellow balloons and white clouds hung on the horizon - the explosions of anti-aircraft shells. Sometimes they take off in a high sheaf - these are anti-aircraft gunners hunting for an airplane.

The muffled rumble of the front reaches us only very faintly, like a distant, distant thunderstorm. As soon as the bumblebee buzzes, the hum is no longer audible.

And around us there is a flowering meadow. Tender panicles of grass sway, cabbage plants flutter; they float in the soft, warm air of late summer; we read letters and newspapers and smoke, we take off our caps and put them next to us, the wind plays with our hair, it plays with our words and thoughts.

Three booths stand among the fiery red flowers of the field poppy...

We place the lid of a margarine barrel on our laps. It is convenient to play skat on it. Kropp took the cards with him. Each round of skate alternates with a game of rams. You can sit for an eternity playing this game.

The sounds of harmonicas reach us from the barracks. Sometimes we put our cards down and look at each other. Then someone says: “Eh, guys...” or: “But a little more, and we would all be finished...” - and we fall silent for a minute. We surrender to the powerful, driven-in feeling, each of us feels its presence, words are not needed here. How easily it could have happened that today we would no longer have to sit in these booths - because, damn it, we were on the verge of doing so. And that’s why everything around is perceived so sharply and anew - scarlet poppies and hearty food, cigarettes and the summer breeze.

Kropp asks:

-Have any of you seen Kemmerich since then?

“He’s in Saint-Joseph, in the infirmary,” I say.

“He has a perforating thigh wound - a sure chance to return home,” Muller notes.

We decide to visit Kemmerich this afternoon.

Kropp pulls out a letter:

– Greetings from Kantorek.

We are laughing. Müller throws down his cigarette and says:

“I wish he were here.”

Kantorek, a stern little man in a gray frock coat, with a face as sharp as a mouse, was a great teacher for us. He was about the same height as non-commissioned officer Himmelstoss, “the thunderstorm of Klosterberg.” By the way, strange as it may seem, all sorts of troubles and misfortunes in this world very often come from short people: they have a much more energetic and quarrelsome character than tall people. I always tried not to end up in a unit where companies were commanded by short officers: they always find fault terribly.

During gymnastics lessons, Kantorek gave speeches to us and eventually ensured that our class, in formation, under his command, went to the district military headquarters, where we signed up as volunteers.

I remember now how he looked at us, the lenses of his glasses sparkling, and asked in a sincere voice: “You, of course, will also go along with everyone else, won’t you, my friends?”

These educators always have high feelings, because they carry them ready in their vest pocket and give them out as needed on a lesson basis. But then we didn’t think about it yet.

True, one of us still hesitated and did not really want to go along with everyone else. It was Joseph Boehm, a fat, good-natured guy. But he still succumbed to persuasion, otherwise he would have closed all paths for himself. Perhaps someone else thought like him, but no one smiled at staying on the sidelines either, because at that time everyone, even parents, so easily threw around the word “coward.” No one simply imagined what turn the matter would take. In essence, the smartest people turned out to be poor and simple people - from the very first day they accepted the war as a misfortune, while everyone who lived better completely lost their heads with joy, although they were the ones who could have figured out what was happening much sooner. all this will lead to.

Katchinsky claims that it’s all because of education, because it supposedly makes people stupid. And Kat doesn’t waste words.

And it so happened that Bem was one of the first to die. During the attack he was wounded in the face and we considered him dead. We could not take him with us, as we had to hastily retreat. In the afternoon we suddenly heard him scream; he crawled in front of the trenches and called for help. During the battle he only lost consciousness. Blind and mad with pain, he no longer sought shelter, and was shot down before we could pick him up.

Kantorek, of course, cannot be blamed for this - to blame him for what he did would mean going very far. After all, there were thousands of Kantoreks, and they were all convinced that in this way they were doing a good deed, without really bothering themselves.

But this is precisely what makes them bankrupt in our eyes.

They should have helped us, eighteen years old, enter the time of maturity, into the world of work, duty, culture and progress, and become mediators between us and our future. Sometimes we made fun of them, sometimes we could play some joke on them, but deep down in our hearts we believed them. Recognizing their authority, we mentally associated knowledge of life and foresight with this concept. But as soon as we saw the first killed, this belief dissipated into dust. We realized that their generation is not as honest as ours; their superiority lay only in the fact that they knew how to speak beautifully and possessed a certain dexterity. The very first artillery shelling revealed our delusion to us, and under this fire the worldview that they instilled in us collapsed.

They were still writing articles and making speeches, and we already saw hospitals and dying people; they still insisted that there was nothing higher than serving the state, and we already knew that the fear of death was stronger. Because of this, none of us became either a rebel, or a deserter, or a coward (they threw these words around so easily): we loved our homeland no less than they did, and never wavered when going on the attack; but now we understand something, it’s as if we suddenly saw the light. And we saw that there was nothing left of their world. We suddenly found ourselves in terrible loneliness, and we had to find a way out of this loneliness ourselves.

Before we go to Kemmerich, we pack his things: they will be useful to him on the trip.

The field hospital is overcrowded; here, as always, it smells of carbolic acid, pus and sweat. Anyone who lived in barracks is used to a lot of things, but here even an ordinary person will feel sick. We ask how to get to Kemmerich; he lies in one of the chambers and greets us with a weak smile, expressing joy and helpless excitement. While he was unconscious, his watch was stolen.

Müller shakes his head disapprovingly:

“I told you, you can’t take such a good watch with you.”

Müller is not very good at thinking and likes to argue. Otherwise he would have held his tongue: after all, everyone can see that Kemmerich will never leave this room. Whether his watch is found or not is absolutely indifferent; at best, it will be sent to his family.

- Well, how are you, Franz? asks Kropp.

Kemmerich lowers his head:

- In general, nothing, just terrible pain in the foot.

We look at his blanket. His leg lies under the wire frame, the blanket bulging above him like a hump. I push Muller on the knee, otherwise he will tell Kemmerich what the orderlies told us in the yard: Kemmerich no longer has a foot - his leg was amputated.

He looks terrible, he is sallow and pale, an expression of alienation appeared on his face, those lines that are so familiar, because we have seen them hundreds of times already. These are not even lines, they are more like signs. You can no longer feel the beating of life under the skin: it has flown away to the far corners of the body, death is making its way from within, it has already taken possession of the eyes. Here lies Kemmerich, our comrade in arms, who so recently roasted horse meat with us and lay in the funnel - it’s still him, and yet it’s no longer him; his image blurred and became indistinct, like a photographic plate on which two photographs were taken. Even his voice is somewhat ashen.

I remember how we left for the front. His mother, a fat, good-natured woman, accompanied him to the station. She cried continuously, causing her face to become limp and swollen. Kemmerich was embarrassed by her tears, no one around behaved as unrestrainedly as she did - it seemed that all her fat would melt from the dampness. At the same time, she apparently wanted to pity me - every now and then she grabbed my hand, begging me to look after her Franz at the front. He actually had a very childish face and such soft bones that, after carrying the backpack on himself for about a month, he had already acquired flat feet. But how can you order to look after a person if he is at the front!

“Now you’ll get home straight away,” says Kropp, “otherwise you’d have to wait three or four months for your vacation.”

Kemmerich nods. I can’t look at his hands—they look like they’re made of wax. There is trench mud stuck under my nails; it has a poisonous blue-black color. It suddenly occurs to me that these nails will not stop growing and after Kemmerich dies, they will continue to grow for a long, long time, like ghostly white mushrooms in the cellar. I imagine this picture: they curl up like a corkscrew and keep growing and growing, and with them the hair grows on the rotting skull, like grass on rich soil, just like grass... Is this really what happens?..

Müller leans over to pick up the package:

– We brought your things, Franz.

Kemmerich makes a sign with his hand:

- Put them under the bed.

Muller stuffs things under the bed. Kemmerich starts talking about watches again. How to calm him down without arousing his suspicions!

Müller crawls out from under the bed with a pair of flight boots. These are magnificent English boots made of soft yellow leather, high, knee-length, laced to the top, the dream of any soldier. Their appearance delights Müller; he places their soles against the soles of his clumsy boots and asks:

“So you want to take them with you, Franz?”

All three of us are thinking the same thing now: even if he recovered, he would still only be able to wear one shoe, which means they would be of no use to him. And given the current state of affairs, it’s just a terrible shame that they will remain here, because as soon as he dies, the orderlies will immediately take them away.

Muller asks again:

- Or maybe you can leave them with us?

Kemmerich doesn't want to. These boots are the best he has.

“We could exchange them for something,” Muller suggests again, “here at the front, such a thing will always be useful.”

But Kemmerich does not give in to persuasion.

I step on Müller's foot; he reluctantly puts the wonderful shoes under the bed.

We continue the conversation for some time, then we begin to say goodbye:

- Get well soon, Franz!

I promise him to come again tomorrow. Mueller is also talking about this; he thinks about boots all the time and therefore decided to guard them.

Kemmerich groaned. He's feverish. We go out into the yard, stop one of the orderlies there and persuade him to give Kemmerich an injection.

He refuses:

“If we give everyone morphine, we’ll have to torture them with barrels.”

No change on the Western Front

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; Now our stomachs are full of beans and meat, and we all walk around full and satisfied. Even for dinner, everyone got a full pot; On top of that, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This hasn’t happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his crimson, like a tomato, bald head himself offers us more food; he waves the ladle, inviting passers-by, and pours out hefty portions to them. He still won’t empty his “squeaker,” and this drives him into despair. Tjaden and Müller obtained several basins from somewhere and filled them to the brim - in reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Müller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But, strictly speaking, we are not entitled to all this at all. The management is not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already midday. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at the “squeaker” dear to our hearts, which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always had the biggest appetite: short Albert Kropp, the brightest head in our company and, probably for this reason, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams: under hurricane fire, he crams the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls from brothels for officers: he swears that there is an order in the army obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and to take a bath before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above; the fourth is me, Paul Bäumer. All four were nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a mechanic, a frail young man of the same age as us, the most gluttonous soldier in the company - for food he sits thin and slender, and after eating, he stands up pot-bellied, like a sucked bug; Haye Westhus, also our age, a peat worker who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our squad, a man with character, smart and cunning - he is forty years old, he has a sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary sense of smell about when the shelling will begin, where you can get food and how It's best to hide from your superiors.

Our section headed the line that formed near the kitchen. We began to get impatient as the unsuspecting cook was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

- Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily:

- Let everyone gather first.

Tjaden grinned:

- And we are all here!

The cook still didn't notice anything:

- Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

- They are not on your payroll today! Some are in the infirmary, and some are in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was struck down. He was even shaken:

- And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

“That means we’ll eat our fill at least once.” Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tjaden. His face, sharp as a mouse, lit up, his eyes squinted slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

- Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded cook nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest:

- And sausage too?

The cook nodded again with his head as purple as a tomato. Tjaden's jaw dropped:

- And tobacco?

- Well, yes, that's it.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

- Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will go to us! It will be - just wait! – that’s right, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and said:

- It won’t work that way.

Now we, too, shook off our sleep and squeezed closer.

- Hey, carrot, why won’t it work? – asked Katchinsky.

- Yes, because eighty is not one hundred and fifty!

“But we’ll show you how to do it,” Muller grumbled.

“You’ll get the soup, so be it, but I’ll give you bread and sausage only for eighty,” Tomato continued to persist.

Katchinsky lost his temper:

“I wish I could send you to the front line just once!” You received food not for eighty people, but for the second company, that’s it. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, through his fault, lunch or dinner ended up in our trenches cold, very late, since even with the most insignificant fire he did not dare to move closer with his cauldron and our food bearers had to crawl much further than their brothers from other mouths. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. Even though he was as fat as a hamster, if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the very front.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and, probably, things would have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. Having learned what we were arguing about, he only said:

- Yes, yesterday we had big losses...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

– And the beans seem to be quite good.

The tomato nodded:

- With lard and beef.

- Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions for everyone. Why should good things disappear?

Tomato's face took on a stupid expression. Tjaden danced around him:

- It’s okay, this won’t hurt you! He imagines that he is in charge of the entire quartermaster service. Now get started, old rat, and make sure you don’t miscalculate!..

“War spares no one.” This is true. Whether it is a defender or an aggressor, a soldier or a civilian, no one, looking into the face of death, will remain the same. No one is prepared for the horrors of war. Perhaps this is what Erich Remarque, the author of the work “All Quiet on the Western Front,” wanted to say.

History of the novel

There was a lot of controversy surrounding this work. Therefore, it would be correct to start with the history of the birth of the novel before presenting a summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front” Erich Maria Remarque wrote as a participant in those terrible events.

He went to the front in the early summer of 1917. Remarque spent several weeks on the front line, was wounded in August and remained in the hospital until the end of the war. But all the time he corresponded with his friend Georg Middendorf, who remained in position.

Remarque asked to report in as much detail as possible about life at the front and did not hide the fact that he wanted to write a book about the war. The summary begins with these events (“All Quiet on the Western Front”). Fragments of the novel contain a cruel but real picture of the terrible trials that befell the soldiers.

The war ended, but the lives of none of them returned to their previous course.

The company is resting

In the first chapter, the author shows the real life of soldiers - unheroic, terrifying. He emphasizes the extent to which the cruelty of war changes people - moral principles are lost, values are lost. This is the generation that was destroyed by the war, even those who escaped the shells. The novel “All Quiet on the Western Front” begins with these words.

Rested soldiers go to breakfast. The cook prepared food for the entire company - 150 people. They want to take extra helpings of their fallen comrades. The main concern of the cook is not to give out anything beyond the norm. And only after a heated argument and the intervention of the company commander does the cook distribute all the food.

Kemmerich, one of Paul's classmates, was hospitalized with a thigh wound. The friends go to the infirmary, where they are informed that the guy’s leg has been amputated. Muller, seeing his strong English boots, argues that a one-legged man does not need them. The wounded man writhes in unbearable pain, and, in exchange for cigarettes, his friends persuade one of the orderlies to give their friend an injection of morphine. They left there with heavy hearts.

Kantorek, their teacher who persuaded them to join the army, sent them a pompous letter. He calls them “iron youth.” But the guys are no longer touched by words about patriotism. They unanimously accuse the class teacher of exposing them to the horrors of war. This is how the first chapter ends. Its summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front” reveals chapter by chapter the characters, feelings, aspirations, and dreams of these young guys who find themselves face to face with the war.

Death of a friend

Paul recalls his life before the war. As a student, he wrote poetry. Now he feels empty and cynical. All this seems so far away to him. Pre-war life is a vague, unrealistic dream that has no relation to the world created by the war. Paul feels completely cut off from humanity.

At school they were taught that patriotism requires the suppression of individuality and personality. Paul's platoon was trained by Himmelstoss. The former postman was a small, stocky man who tirelessly humiliated his recruits. Paul and his friends hated Himmelstoss. But Paul now knows that those humiliations and discipline toughened them up and probably helped them survive.

Kemmerich is close to death. He is saddened by the fact that he will never become the chief forester, as he dreamed. Paul sits next to his friend, comforting him and assuring him that he will get better and return home. Kemmerich says he is giving his boots to Müller. He becomes ill, and Paul goes to look for a doctor. When he returns, his friend is already dead. The body is immediately removed from the bed to make room.

It would seem that the summary of the second chapter ended with what cynical words. “All Quiet on the Western Front,” from chapter 4 of the novel, will reveal the true essence of the war. Once you come into contact with it, a person will not remain the same. War hardens, makes you indifferent - to orders, to blood, to death. She will never leave a person, but will always be with him - in memory, in body, in soul.

Young replenishment

A group of recruits arrives at the company. They are a year younger than Paul and his friends, which makes them feel like grizzled veterans. There is not enough food and blankets. Paul and his friends remember the barracks where they were recruits with longing. Himmelstoss' humiliations seem idyllic compared to real war. The guys remember the drill in the barracks and discuss the war.

Tjaden arrives and excitedly reports that Himmelstoss has arrived at the front. They remember his bullying and decide to take revenge on him. One night, as he was returning from the pub, they threw bedclothes over his head, took off his trousers and beat him with a whip, muffling his screams with a pillow. They retreated so quickly that Himmelstoss never found out who his offenders were.

Night shelling

The company is sent at night to the front line for sapper work. Paul reflects that for a soldier the land takes on a new meaning at the front: it saves him. Here ancient animal instincts awaken, which save many people if you obey them without hesitation. At the front, the instinct of the beast awakens in men, Paul argues. He understands how much a person degrades, surviving in inhuman conditions. This is clearly evident from the summary of “All Quiet on the Western Front.”

Chapter 4 will shed light on what it was like for young, unexamined boys to find themselves at the front. During the shelling, a recruit lies next to Paul, clinging to him, as if seeking protection. When the shots died down a bit, he admitted with horror that he had defecated in his pants. Paul explains to the boy that many soldiers face this problem. You can hear the painful neighing of wounded horses struggling in agony. The soldiers finish them off, saving them from suffering.

The shelling begins with renewed vigor. Paul crawled out of his hiding place and saw that the same boy who was clinging to him out of fear was seriously wounded.

Terrifying reality

The fifth chapter begins with a description of the unsanitary living conditions at the front. The soldiers sit, stripped to the waist, crushing lice and discussing what they will do after the war. They calculated that out of twenty people from their class, only twelve remained. Seven are dead, four are wounded, and one has gone mad. They mockingly repeat the questions that Kantorek asked them at school. Paul has no idea what he will do after the war. Kropp concludes that the war has destroyed everything. They cannot believe in anything other than war.

The fighting continues

The company is sent to the front line. Their path lies through the school, along the facade of which there are brand new coffins. Hundreds of coffins. The soldiers joke about this. But on the front line it turns out that the enemy has received reinforcements. Everyone is in a depressed mood. Night and day pass in tense anticipation. They sit in trenches where disgusting fat rats scurry about.

The soldier has no choice but to wait. Days pass before the earth begins to shake with explosions. Almost nothing remained of their trench. Trial by fire is too much of a shock for new recruits. One of them became furious and tried to escape. Apparently he's gone crazy. The soldiers tie him up, but the other recruit manages to escape.

Another night has passed. Suddenly the nearby explosions stop. The enemy begins to attack. German soldiers repulse the attack and reach enemy positions. All around are the screams and groans of the wounded, mutilated corpses. Paul and his comrades need to return. But before doing this, they greedily grab cans of stew and note that the enemy has much better conditions than them.

Paul reminisces about the past. These memories hurt. Suddenly the fire fell on their positions with renewed force. Chemical attacks claim the lives of many. They die a painful, slow death from suffocation. Everyone runs out of their hiding places. But Himmelstoss hides in a trench and pretends to be wounded. Paul tries to drive him out with blows and threats.

There are explosions all around, and it seems that the whole earth is bleeding. New soldiers are brought in to replace them. The commander calls their company to the vehicles. The roll call begins. Of the 150 people, thirty-two remained.

After reading the summary of “All Quiet on the Western Front,” we see that the company twice suffers huge losses. The heroes of the novel return to duty. But the worst thing is another war. War against degradation, against stupidity. War with yourself. But here victory is not always on your side.

Paul goes home

The company is sent to the rear, where it will be reorganized. Having experienced horror before the battles, Himmelstoss tries to “rehabilitate himself” - he gets good food for the soldiers and an easy job. Away from the trenches they try to joke. But the humor becomes too bitter and dark.

Paul gets seventeen days of vacation. In six weeks he must report to the training unit, and then to the front. He wonders how many of his friends will survive during this time. Paul arrives in his hometown and sees that the civilian population is starving. He learns from his sister that his mother has cancer. Relatives ask Paul how things are going at the front. But he doesn't have enough words to describe all this horror.

Paul sits in his bedroom with his books and paintings, trying to bring back his childhood feelings and desires, but the memories are only shadows. His identity as a soldier is the only thing he has now. The end of the holiday approaches, and Paul visits the mother of Kemmerich's deceased friend. She wants to know how he died. Paul lies to her that her son died without suffering or pain.

Mother sits with Paul in the bedroom all last night. He pretends to be asleep, but notices that his mother is in severe pain. He makes her go to bed. Paul returns to his room, and from the surge of feelings, from hopelessness, he squeezes the iron bars of the bed and thinks that it would be better if he had not come. It only got worse. Sheer pain - from pity for her mother, for herself, from the realization that there is no end to this horror.

Camp with prisoners of war

Paul arrives at the training unit. There is a prisoner of war camp next to their barracks. Russian prisoners stealthily walk around their barracks and rummage through waste bins. Paul cannot understand what they find there. They are starving, but Paul notes that the prisoners treat each other like brothers. They are in such a pitiful situation that Paul has no reason to hate them.

Prisoners are dying every day. Russians bury several people at a time. Paul sees the terrible conditions they are in, but pushes away thoughts of pity so as not to lose his composure. He shares cigarettes with prisoners. One of them found out that Paul played the piano and began to play the violin. She sounds thin and lonely, and this makes her even more sad.

Return to duty

Paul arrives at the location and finds his friends alive and unharmed. He shares with them the food he brought. While waiting for the Kaiser to arrive, the soldiers are tortured with drills and work. They were given new clothes, which were immediately taken away after his departure.

Paul volunteers to gather information about enemy forces. The area is being shelled with machine guns. A flare flashes above Paul, and he realizes that he must lie still. Footsteps were heard, and someone's heavy body fell on him. Paul reacts with lightning speed - strikes with a dagger.

Paul cannot watch the enemy he wounded die. He crawls over to him, bandages his wounds and gives water to their flasks. A few hours later he dies. Paul finds letters in his wallet, a photo of a woman and a little girl. From the documents, he guessed that it was a French soldier.

Paul talks to the dead soldier and explains that he did not want to kill him. Every word he reads plunges Paul into a feeling of guilt and pain. He rewrites the address and decides to send money to his family. Paul promises that if he remains alive, he will do everything to ensure that this never happens again.

Three weeks feast

Paul and his friends guard a food warehouse in an abandoned village. They decided to use this time with pleasure. They covered the floor in the dugout with mattresses from abandoned houses. We got eggs and fresh butter. They caught two piglets that miraculously survived. Potatoes, carrots, and young peas were found in the fields. And they arranged a feast for themselves.

A well-fed life lasted three weeks. After which they were evacuated to a neighboring village. The enemy began shelling, Kropp and Paul were wounded. They are picked up by an ambulance, which is full of wounded. They are operated on in the infirmary and sent by train to the hospital.

One of the nurses had difficulty persuading Paul to lie down on the snow-white sheets. He is not yet ready to return to the fold of civilization. Dirty clothes and lice make him feel uncomfortable here. Classmates are sent to a Catholic hospital.

Soldiers die in hospital every day. Kropp's leg is completely amputated. He says he will shoot himself. Paul thinks that the hospital is the best place to learn what war is like. He wonders what awaits his generation after the war.

Paul receives leave to recover at home. Leaving for the front and parting with your mother is even more difficult than the first time. She is even weaker than before. This is the summary of the tenth chapter. “All Quiet on the Western Front” is a story that covers not only military operations, but also the behavior of heroes on the battlefield.

The novel reveals how, facing death and cruelty every day, Paul begins to feel uncomfortable in peaceful life. He rushes about, trying to find peace of mind at home, next to his family. But nothing comes of it. Deep down, he understands that he will never find him again.

Terrible losses

The war rages, but the German army is noticeably weakening. Paul stopped counting the days and weeks that went by in battle. The pre-war years are “no longer valid” because they have ceased to mean anything. The life of a soldier is a constant avoidance of death. They reduce you to the level of mindless animals, because instinct is the best weapon against an inexorable mortal danger. This helps them survive.

Spring. The food is bad. The soldiers were emaciated and hungry. Detering brought a cherry blossom branch and remembered the house. He soon deserts. They caught him and caught him. No one heard anything more about him.

Muller is killed. Leer was wounded in the thigh and is bleeding. Berting was wounded in the chest, Kat - in the shin. Paul drags the wounded Kat on himself, they talk. Exhausted, Paul stops. The orderlies come up and say that Kat is dead. Paul did not notice that his comrade was wounded in the head. Paul doesn't remember anything else.

Defeat is inevitable

Autumn. 1918 Paul is the only one of his classmates who survived. Bloody battles continue. The United States joins the enemy. Everyone understands that Germany's defeat is inevitable.

After being gassed, Paul rests for two weeks. He sits under a tree and imagines how he will return home. He gets scared. He thinks that they will all return as living corpses. Shells of people, empty inside, tired, lost hope. Paul finds this thought hard to bear. He feels that his own life has been irrevocably destroyed.

Paul was killed in October. On an unusually quiet peaceful day. When they turned him over, his face was calm, as if to say that he was glad that everything ended this way. At this time, a report was transmitted from the front line: “No change on the Western Front.”

The meaning of the novel

The First World War made adjustments to world politics, became a catalyst for revolution and the collapse of empires. These changes affected everyone's lives. About war, suffering, friendship - this is exactly what the author wanted to say. This is clearly shown in the summary.

Remarque wrote “All Quiet on the Western Front” in 1929. The subsequent World Wars were bloodier and more brutal. Therefore, the theme raised by Remarque in the novel was continued in his subsequent books and in the works of other writers.

Undoubtedly, this novel is a grandiose event in the arena of world literature of the 20th century. This work not only sparked debate about its literary merits, but also caused enormous political resonance.

The novel is one of the hundred must-read books. The work requires not only an emotional attitude, but also a philosophical one. This is evidenced by the style and manner of narration, the author’s style and summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front,” as some sources testify, is second only to the Bible in terms of circulation and readability.