All Quiet on the Western Front

by Erich Maria Remarque

THERE ARE RUMOURS of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of resin, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred. “That’s a good preparation for the offensive,” says Müller astonished. “They’re for us,” growls Detering. “Don’t talk rot,” says Kat to him angrily. “You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin,” grins Tjaden, “they’ll slip you a waterproof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase.” The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?—The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing.