This is too much for me. I grab him by the neck and shake him like a sack, his head jerks from side to side.

“You lump, will you get out⁠—you hound, you skunk, sneak out of it, would you?” His eye becomes glassy, I knock his head against the wall⁠—“You cow”⁠—I kick him in the ribs⁠—“You swine”⁠—I push him toward the door and shove him out head first.

Another wave of our attack has just come up. A lieutenant is with them. He sees us and yells: “Forward, forward, join in, follow.” And the word of command does what all my banging could not. Himmelstoss hears the order, looks round him as if awakened, and follows on.

I come after and watch him go over. Once more he is the smart Himmelstoss of the parade-ground, he has even outstripped the lieutenant and is far ahead.

Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades⁠—words, words, but they hold the horror of the world.