All Quiet on the Western Front / На Западном фронте без перемен. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Эрих Мария Ремарк

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      Before we set off to see Kemmerich we pack his things up for him – he’ll be glad of them on his way home.

      The clearing station[30] is very busy. It smells of carbolic, pus and sweat, just like it always does. You get used to a lot of things when you are in the barracks, but this can still really turn your stomach. We keep on asking people until we find out where Kemmerich is; he is in a long ward, and welcomes us weakly, with a look that is part pleasure and part helpless agitation. While he was unconscious, somebody stole his watch.

      Muller shakes his head, ‘I always said that you shouldn’t take such a good watch with you, didn’t I?’

      Muller is a bit bossy and tactless. Otherwise he would have kept his mouth shut, because it is obvious to everyone that Kemmerich is never going to leave this room. It makes no difference whether he gets his watch back or not – the most it would mean is that we could send it back home for him.

      ‘How’s it going, then, Franz?’ asks Kropp.

      Kemmerich’s head drops back. ‘OK, I suppose. It’s just that my damned foot hurts so much.’

      We glance at his bed-cover. His leg is under a wire frame, which makes the coverlet bulge upwards. I kick Muller on the shin, because he would be quite capable of telling Kemmerich what the orderly told us before we came in; Kemmerich no longer has a foot. His leg has been amputated.

      He looks terrible, yellow and pallid, and his face already has those weird lines that we are so familiar with because we have seen them a hundred times before. They aren’t really lines at all, just signs. There is no longer any life pulsing under his skin – it has been forced out already to the very edges of his body, and death is working its way through him, moving outwards from the centre, it is already in his eyes. There in the bed is our pal Kemmerich, who was frying horse-meat with us not long ago, and squatting with us in a shell hole[31] – it’s still him, but it isn’t really him any more; his image has faded, become blurred, like a photographic plate that’s had too many copies made from it. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

      I remember the day when we were drafted out[32]. His mother, a pleasant, stout woman, saw him off at the station. She was crying all the time, and her face was puffy and swollen. This embarrassed Kemmerich, because she was the least composed of all of them, practically dissolving in fat and tears. What’s more, she picked me out, and kept grabbing my arm and begging me to keep an eye on Franz when we got out here. As it happens, he did have a very young face, and his bones were so soft that after just a month of carrying a pack he got flat feet[33]. But how can you keep an eye on someone on a battlefield?

      ‘You’ll be going home now,’ says Kropp. ‘You would have had to wait at least another three or four months before you got leave.’ Kemmerich nods. I can’t look at his hands, they are like wax. The dirt of the trenches is underneath his fingernails, and it is bluey-grey, like poison. It occurs to me that those fingernails will go on getting longer and longer for a good while yet, like some ghastly underground growths, long after Kemmerich has stopped breathing. I can see them before my eyes, twisting like corkscrews and growing and growing, and with them the hair on his caved-in skull, like grass on good earth, just like grass – how can all that be? Muller leans forward. ‘We’ve brought your things, Franz.’ Kemmerich gestures with one hand. ‘Put them under the bed.’ Muller does as he says. Kemmerich starts on about the watch again. How can we possibly calm him down without making him suspicious?

      Muller bobs up again with a pair of airman’s flying boots, best quality English ones made of soft yellow leather, the sort that come up to the knee, with lacing all the way to the top – something really worth having. The sight of them makes Muller excited, and he holds the soles against his own clumsy boots and says, ‘Are you going to take these with you, Franz?’

      All three of us are thinking the same thing: even if he did get better he would only be able to wear one of them, so they wouldn’t be any use to him. But as things are it would be a pity to leave them here – the orderlies are bound to pinch them the moment he is dead.

      Muller repeats, ‘Why don’t you leave them here?’

      Kemmerich doesn’t want to. They are his prize possession.

      ‘We could do a swap,’ suggests Muller, trying again, ‘you can really do with boots like that out here.’ But Kemmerich won’t be persuaded.

      I kick Muller, and reluctantly he puts the splendid boots back under the bed.

      We chat for a bit longer, and then say goodbye. ‘Chin up[34], Franz.’

      I promise him that I will come back tomorrow. Muller says that he will as well. He is still thinking about the flying boots and he wants to keep an eye on things.

      Kemmerich groans. He is feverishСКАЧАТЬ