BOOK 2 Storm of Steel, Junger/All Quiet on the Western Front, Remarque  IT MUST be a minimum of one page, single-spaced in 10 pt. Times Roman font. Do

BOOK 2 Storm of Steel, Junger/All Quiet on the Western Front, Remarque 

IT MUST be a minimum of one page, single-spaced in 10 pt. Times Roman font. Do

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BOOK 2 Storm of Steel, Junger/All Quiet on the Western Front, Remarque 

IT MUST be a minimum of one page, single-spaced in 10 pt. Times Roman font. Do not use a header (name, date, title, professor’s name). Do not use outside sources. Remember to write a complete it . Plagiarism will not be tolerated. (100 pts) 

 Question to answer below :

Most books about war have a political viewpoint; that is, they are pro or anti-war. How would you classify All Quiet on the Western Front and Storm of Steel? Use details from the books to support your opinions. ERICH MARIA REMARQUE

All Quiet on the Western Front

Translated from the German by A. W. WHEEN FAWCETT CREST

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 its shells, were destroyed by the war.


We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are

full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace. Each man has another mess-tin full

for the evening; and, what is more, there is a double ration of sausage and bread. That puts a man

in fine trim. We have not had such luck as this for a long time. The cook with his carroty head is

begging us to eat; he beckons with his ladle to every one that passes, and spoons him out a great

dollop. He does not see how he can empty his stew-pot in time for coffee. Tjaden and Müller have

produced two washbasins and had them filled up to the brim as a reserve. In Tjaden this is

voracity, in Müller it is foresight. Where Tjaden puts it all is a mystery, for he is and always will be

as thin as a rake. What’s more important still is the issue of a double ration of smokes. Ten cigars,

twenty cigarettes, and two quids of chew per man; now that is decent. I have exchanged my

chewing tobacco with Katczinsky for his cigarettes, which means I have forty altogether. That’s

enough for a day.

It is true we have no right to this windfall. The Prussian is not so generous. We have only a

miscalculation to thank for it.

Fourteen days ago we had to go up and relieve the front line. It was fairly quiet on our sector, so

the quartermaster who remained in the rear had requisitioned the usual quantity of rations and

provided for the full company of one hundred and fifty men. But on the last day an astonishing

number of English heavies opened up on us with high-explosive, drumming ceaselessly on our

position, so that we suffered severely and came back only eighty strong.

Last night we moved back and settled down to get a good sleep for once: Katczinsky is right

when he says it would not be such a bad war if only one could get a little more sleep. In the line

we have had next to none, and fourteen days is a long time at one stretch.

It was noon before the first of us crawled out of our quarters. Half an hour later every man had

his mess-tin and we gathered at the cookhouse, which smelt greasy and nourishing. 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. He swears that they are obliged by

an army order to wear silk chemises and to bathe before entertaining guests of the rank of

captain and upwards. And as the fourth, myself, Paul Bäumer. And four are nineteen years of

age, and all four joined up from the same class as volunteers for the war.

Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny locksmith of our own age, the biggest eater of

the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the

family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his

hand and say: Guess what I’ve got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but

his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd,

cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and

a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs.

Our gang formed the head of the queue before the cook-house. We were growing impatient, for

the cook paid no attention to us.

Finally Katczinsky called to him: “Say, Heinrich, open up the soup-kitchen. Anyone can see the

beans are done.”

He shook his head sleepily: “You must all be there first.” Tjaden grinned: “We are all here.”

The sergeant-cook still took no notice. “That may do for you,” he said. “But where are the


“They won’t be fed by you to-day. They’re either in the dressing-station or pushing up daisies.”

The cook was quite disconcerted as the facts dawned on him. He was staggered. “And I have

cooked for one hundred and fifty men–”

Kropp poked him in the ribs. “Then for once we’ll have enough. Come on, begin!”

Suddenly a vision came over Tjaden. His sharp, mousy features began to shine, his eyes grew

small with cunning, his jaws twitched, and he whispered hoarsely: “Man! then you’ve got bread

for one hundred and fifty men too, eh?”

The sergeant-cook nodded absent-minded, and bewildered.

Tjaden seized him by the tunic. “And sausage?”

Ginger nodded again.

Tjaden’s chaps quivered. “Tobacco too?”

“Yes, everything.”

Tjaden beamed: “What a bean-feast! That’s all for us! Each man gets–wait a bit–yes, practically

two issues.”

Then Ginger stirred himself and said: “That won’t do.”

We got excited and began to crowd around.

“Why won’t that do, you old carrot?” demanded Katczinsky.

“Eighty men can’t have what is meant for a hundred and fifty.”

“We’ll soon show you,” growled Müller.

“I don’t care about the stew, but I can only issue rations for eighty men,” persisted Ginger.

Katczinsky got angry. “You might be generous for once. You haven’t drawn food for eighty men.

You’ve drawn it for the Second Company. Good. Let’s have it then. We are the Second Company.”

We began to jostle the fellow. No one felt kindly toward him, for it was his fault that the food

often came up to us in the line too late and cold. Under shellfire he wouldn’t bring his kitchen up

near enough, so that our soup-carriers had to go much farther than those of the other companies.

Now Bulcke of the First Company is a much better fellow. He is as fat as a hamster in winter, but

he trundles his pots when it comes to that right up to the very front-line.

We were in just the right mood, and there would certainly have been a dust-up if our company

commander had not appeared. He informed himself of the dispute, and only remarked: “Yes, we

did have heavy losses yesterday.”

He glanced into the dixie. “The beans look good.” Ginger nodded. “Cooked with meat and fat.”

The lieutenant looked at us. He knew what we were thinking. And he knew many other things too,

because he came to the company as a non-com, and was promoted from the ranks. He lifted the

lid from the dixie again and sniffed. Then passing on he said: “Bring me a plate full. Serve out all

the rations. We can do with them.”

Ginger looked sheepish as Tjaden danced round 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.”

“You be hanged!” spat out Ginger. When things get beyond him he throws up the sponge

altogether; he just goes to pieces. And as if to show that all things were equal to him, of his own

free will he issued in addition half a pound of synthetic honey to each man.

To-day is wonderfully good. The mail has come, and almost every man has a few letters and

papers. We stroll over to the meadow behind the billets. Kropp has the round lid of a margarine

tub under his arm.

On the right side of the meadow a large common latrine has been built, a roofed and durable

construction. But that is for recruits who as yet have not learned how to make the most of

whatever comes their way. We want something better. Scattered about everywhere there are

separate, individual boxes for the same purpose. They are square, neat boxes with wooden sides

all round, and have unimpeachably satisfactory seats. On the sides are hand grips enabling one to

shift them about.

We move three together in a ring and sit down comfortably. And it will be two hours before we

get up again.

I well remembered how embarrassed we were as recruits in barracks when we had to use the

general latrine. There were no doors and twenty men sat side by side as in a railway carriage, so

that they could be reviewed all at one glance, for soldiers must always be under supervision.

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

far worse than that came easy to us.

Here in the open air though, the business is entirely a pleasure. I no longer understand why we

should always have shied at these things before. They are, in fact, just as natural as eating and

drinking. We might perhaps have paid no particular attention to them had they not figured so

large in our experience, nor been such novelties to our minds–to the old hands they had long

been a mere matter of course.

The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-

quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavour to

expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express

oneself in any other way so clearly and pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked

when we go home, but here it is the universal language.

Enforced publicity has in our eyes restored the character of complete innocence to all these

things. More than that, they are so much a matter of course that their comfortable performance

is fully as much enjoyed as the playing of a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word

“latrine-rumour” invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms.

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

There it can only be hygienic; here it is beautiful.

These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright

yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells.

Often they rise in a sheaf as they follow after an airman. We hear the muffled rumble of the front

only as very distant thunder, bumble-bees droning by quite drown it. Around us stretches the

flowery meadow. The grasses sway their tall spears; the white butterflies flutter around and float

on the soft warm wind of the late summer. We read letters and newspapers and smoke. We take

off our caps and lay them down beside us. The wind plays with our hair; it plays with our words

and thoughts. The three boxes stand in the midst of the glowing, red field-poppies.

We set the lid of the margarine tub on our knees and so have a good table for a game of skat.

Kropp has the cards with him. After every misère ouverte we have a round of nap. One could sit

like this for ever.

The notes of an accordion float across from the billets. Often we lay aside the cards and look

about us. One of us will say: “Well, boys….” Or “It was a near thing that time….” And for a

moment we fall silent. There is in each of us a feeling of constraint. We are all sensible of it; it

needs no words to communicate it. It might easily have happened that we should not be sitting

here on our boxes to-day; it came damn near to that. And so everything is new and brave, red

poppies and good food, cigarettes and summer breeze.

Kropp asks: “Anyone seen Kemmerich lately?”

“He’s up at St. Joseph’s,” I tell him.

Müller explains that he has a flesh wound in his thigh; a good blighty.

We decide to go and see him this afternoon.

Kropp pulls out a letter. “Kantorek sends you all his best wishes.”

We laugh. Müller throws his cigarette away and says: “I wish he was here.”

Kantorek had been our schoolmaster, a stern little man in a grey tailcoat, with a face like a shrew

mouse. He was about the same size as Corporal Himmelstoss, the “terror of Klosterberg.” It is very

queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much

more energetic and uncompromising than the big fellows. I have always taken good care to keep

out of sections with small company commanders. They are mostly confounded little martinets.

During drill-time Kantorek gave us long lectures until the whole of our class went, under his

shepherding, to the District Commandant and volunteered. I can see him now, as he used to glare

at us through his spectacles and say in a moving voice: “Won’t you join up, Comrades?”

These teachers always carry their feelings ready in their waistcoat pockets, and trot them out by

the hour. But we didn’t think of that then.

There was, indeed, one of us who hesitated and did not want to fall into line. That was Joseph

Behm, a plump, homely fellow. But he did allow himself to be persuaded, otherwise he would

have been ostracised. And perhaps more of us thought as he did, but no one could very well stand

out, because at that time even one’s parents were ready with the word “coward”; no one had the

vaguest idea what we were in for. The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew

the war to be a misfortune, whereas those who were better off, and should have been able to see

more clearly what the consequences would be, were beside themselves with joy.

Katczinsky said that was a result of their upbringing. It made them stupid. And what Kat said, he

had thought about.

Strange to say, Behm was one of the first to fall. He got hit in the eye during an attack, and we

left him lying for dead. We couldn’t bring him with us, because we had to come back helter-

skelter. In the afternoon suddenly we heard him call, and saw him crawling about in No Man’s

Land. He had only been knocked unconscious. Because he could not see, and was mad with pain,

he failed to keep under cover, and so was shot down before anyone could go and fetch him in.

Naturally we couldn’t blame Kantorek for this. Where would the world be if one brought every

man to book? 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.

For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity,

the world of work, of duty, of culture, of progress–to the future. We often made fun of them and

played jokes on them, but 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 recognise that our generation was more to

be trusted than theirs.

They surpassed us only in phrases and in cleverness. The first bombardment showed us our

mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces.

While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and dying. While they taught that

duty to one’s country is the greatest thing, we already knew that death-throes are stronger. But

for all that we were no mutineers, no deserters, no cowards–they were very free with all these

expressions. We loved our country as much as they; we went courageously into every action; but

also we distinguished the false from true, we had suddenly learned to see. And we saw that there

was nothing of their world left. We were all at once terribly alone; and alone we must see it


Before going over to see Kemmerich we pack up his things: he will need them on the way back.

In the dressing station there is great activity: it reeks as ever of carbolic, pus, and sweat. We are

accustomed to a good deal in the billets, but this makes us feel faint. We ask for Kemmerich. He

lies in a large room and receives us with feeble expressions of joy and helpless agitation. While he

was unconscious someone had stolen his watch.

Müller shakes his head: “I always told you that nobody should carry as good a watch as that.”

Müller is rather crude and tactless, otherwise he would hold his tongue, for anybody can see

that Kemmerich will never come out of this place again. Whether he finds his watch or not will

make no difference, at the most one will only be able to send it to his people.

“How goes it, Franz?” asks Kropp.

Kemmerich’s head sinks.

“Not so bad… but I have such a damned pain in my foot.”

We look at his bed covering. His leg lies under a wire basket. The bed covering arches over it. I

kick Müller on the shin, for he is just about to tell Kemmerich what the orderlies told us outside:

that Kemmerich has lost his foot. The leg is amputated. He looks ghastly, yellow and wan. In his

face there are already the strained lines that we know so well, we have seen them now hundreds

of times. They are not so much lines as marks. Under the skin the life no longer pulses, it has

already pressed out the boundaries of the body. Death is working through from within. It already

has command in the eyes. Here lies our comrade, Kemmerich, who a little while ago was roasting

horse flesh with us and squatting in the shell-holes. He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His

features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate from which two pictures have

been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

I think of the time when we went away. His mother, a good plump matron, brought him to the

station. She wept continually, her face was bloated and swollen. Kemmerich felt embarrassed, for

she was the least composed of all; she simply dissolved into fat and water. Then she caught sight

of me and took hold of my arm again and again, and implored me to look after Franz out there.

Indeed he did have a face like a child, and such frail bones that after four weeks’ pack-carrying he

already had flat feet. But how can a man look after anyone in the field!

“Now you will soon be going home,” says Kropp. “You would have had to wait at least three or

four months for your leave.”

Kemmerich nods. I cannot bear to look at his hands, they are like wax. Under the nails is the dirt

of the trenches, it shows through blue-black like poison. It strikes me that these nails will continue

to grow like lean fantastic cellar-plants long after Kemmerich breathes no more. I see the picture

before me. They twist themselves into corkscrews and grow and grow, and with them the hair on

the decaying skull, just like grass in a good soil, just like grass, how can it be possible– Müller

leans over. “We have brought your things, Franz.”

Kemmerich signs with his hands. “Put them under the bed.”

Müller does so. Kemmerich starts on again about the watch. How can one calm him without

making him suspicious?

Müller reappears with a pair of airman’s boots. 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.

Müller is delighted at the sight of them. He matches their soles against his own clumsy boots

and says: “Will you be taking them with you then, Franz?”

We all three have the same thought; even if he should get better, he would be able to use only

one–they are no use to him. But as things are now it is a pity that they should stay here; the

orderlies will of course grab them as soon as he is dead, “Won’t you leave them with us?” Müller


Kemmerich doesn’t want to. They are his most prized possessions.

“Well, we could exchange,” suggests Müller again. “Out here one can make some use of them.”

Still Kemmerich is not to be moved.

I tread on Müller’s foot; reluctantly he puts the fine boots back again under the bed.

We talk a little more and then take our leave.

“Cheerio, Franz.”

I promise him to come back in the morning. Müller talks of doing so, too. He is thinking of the

lace-up boots and means to be on the spot.

Kemmerich groans. He is feverish. We get hold of an orderly outside and ask him to give

Kemmerich a dose of morphia.

He refuses. “If we were to give morphia to everyone we would have to have tubs full–”

“You only attend to officers properly,” says Kropp viciously.

I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it.

“Are you usually allowed to give it, then?” I ask him.

He is annoyed. “If you don’t think so, then why do you ask?”

I press a few more cigarettes into his hand. “Do us the favour–”

“Well, all right,” he says.

Kropp goes in with him. He doesn’t trust him and wants to see. We wait outside.

Müller returns to the subject of the boots. “They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get

blister after blister. Do you think he will last till tomorrow after drill? If he passes out in the night,

we know where the boots–”

Kropp returns. “Do you think–?” he asks.

“Done for,” says Müller emphatically.

We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write tomorrow to Kemmerich’s mother.

I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little

Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking around him with a broken

and distracted face, stammers “Damned shit, the damned shit!”

We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand, he saw red; out here

every man gets like that sometime.

“What has Kantorek written to you?” Müller asks him.

He laughs. “We are the Iron Youth.”

We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak.

Yes, that’s the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are

none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk.


It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a

play called “Saul” and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them–we all did

something of the kind–but that has become so unreal to me I cannot comprehend it any more.

Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We

often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men

of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and for me, for all of us

whom Kantorek calls the “Iron Youth.” 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. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and

some, perhaps, a girl–that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest

and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else–some enthusiasm, a

few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains.

Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet

taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption.

They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the

end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste

land. All the same, we are not often sad.

Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich’s boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as

another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were

Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go bare-foot over barbed

wire than scheme how to get hold of them. 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. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? He has more right

than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on

the watch.

We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real

and important for us. And good boots are scarce.

Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of

twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks.

We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of

too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague

ideas which gave to life, and to the war also an ideal and almost romantic character. 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.

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. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were

to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to

it. We learned in fact that some of these things were necessary, but the rest merely show.

Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions.

By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen,

peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went

to No .9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss.

He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He

was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years’ service

and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike of Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me,

because he sensed a quiet defiance.

I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and

pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty

hours–with intervals of course–until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss

could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals’ Mess

with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a

hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant

accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result

of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every

Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to

practise on a wet, soft, newly-ploughed field the “Prepare to advance, advance!” and the “Lie

down!” until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to

Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with

Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter

of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers

on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to

the courtyard in my shirt at two o’clock in the morning because my drawers projected three

inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one’s things. Alongside me ran

the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight

with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon, whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he

easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. …

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