I open my eyes⁠—my fingers grasp a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? I yell to him⁠—no answer⁠—a dead man. My hand gropes farther, splinters of wood⁠—now I remember again that we are lying in the graveyard.

But the shelling is stronger than everything. It wipes out the sensibilities, I merely crawl still farther under the coffin, it shall protect me, though Death himself lies in it.

Before me gapes the shell-hole. I grasp it with my eyes as with fists. With one leap I must be in it. There, I get a smack in the face, a hand clamps onto my shoulder⁠—has the dead man waked up?⁠—The hand shakes me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into the face of Katczinsky, he has his mouth wide open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes nearer, in a momentary lull his voice reaches me: “Gas⁠—Gaas⁠—Gaaas⁠—Pass it on.”

I grab for my gas-mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think of nothing but this: That fellow there must know: Gaaas⁠—Gaaas⁠—