Then Captain Marschner observed the man next to him let his rifle sink
for a moment and with hasty, shaking hands insert the bayonet into the
smoking barrel. The captain felt as though he were going to vomit. He
closed his eyes in dizziness and leaned against the trench wall, and let
himself glide to the earth. Was he to--to see--that? Was he to see men
being murdered right alongside of him? He tore his revolver from his
pocket, emptied it, and threw it away. Now he was defenseless. And
suddenly he grew calm and rose to his feet, elevated by a wonderful
composure, ready to let himself be butchered by one of those panting
beasts who were storming on, chased by the blind fear of death. He
wanted to die like a man, without hatred, without rage, with clean
hands.
A hoarse roar, a frightful, dehumanized cry almost beside him wrenched
his thoughts back into the trench. A broad stream of light and fire,
travelling in a steep curve, flowed blindingly down beside him and
sprayed over the shoulder of the tall pock-marked tailor of the first
line. In the twinkling of an eye the man's entire left side flared up in
flames. With a howl of agony he threw himself to the ground, writhed and
screamed and leaped to his feet again, and ran moaning up and down like
a living torch, until he broke down, half-charred, and twitched, and
then lay rigid. Captain Marschner saw him lying there and smelt the odor
of burned flesh, and his eyes involuntarily strayed to his own hand on
which a tiny, white spot just under his thumb reminded him of the
torments he had suffered in his boyhood from a bad burn.
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