Soldier's Diary: All Quiet On The Western Front

“It was a typical of being in the war. Things changed rapidly in a matter of seconds and no one had any control over anything, We had yet to learn these things and implement survival tactics, which was what it came down to.” Beah pg.29

     A typical day in my grandfathers’ life at the time was to wake up at the crack of dawn and get ready for a full day of combat, well at least for the ground troops that didn’t have a tank to be protected by. Of course for him, driving a tank was easier then being a ground troop. So that made things a little easier. He told me every day the main thing he did, and I quote, “kep my

Ars Moriendi The complete ensemble gathers to pray and mourn Pius’ passing. Tone is drumming like a military march to symbolize the start of WWI. A bells tolls throughout. Pius sings with labored breath, taking air after every phrase.

It is March first, I miss you so much it is unbearable. Sleeping can be awful out here in the trenches only because I want to be home in a comfy bed again safe and sound where war isn’t the only thing on my mind. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I can’t breathe because I dream someone has invaded our trenches and shot me. It isn’t easy being out here but if it means fighting for you then it is what I will do.

The men who went into World War One risked their lives to save other innocent lives, even though they were afraid. Day by day went by, not knowing how long they would survive. All Quiet on the Western Front is about the horror, loss of innocence, and comradery of war during World War One, because it shows what war was like, and how the men and women had to cope with it.

On April 24, I managed to drift off to sleep, but a scream awoke me. Ahead of us, an unbroken wall of gas crawled towards the trenches at ground level. Someone down the line had fallen, clutching his chest. Bullets whizzed, shells roared and soldiers fell. Screams were cut off as the gas sucked the life out of the victims. They struggled to suck oxygen into their corrupt lungs. Attacking their bronchial tubes, the chlorine leaked fluid into their bloodstreams. The victims suffocated, drowning in their own fluids. The Algerians' eyeballs were white, coughing until glue came out from their mouths. The gas roamed the ground, giving the German snipers and machine gunners a clear aim at the sprinting soldiers. While the alley men opened fire at our backs, I bolted away from that hell containing abyss. I dragged myself off the muddy battlefield. My lungs burned with chlorine and my hip was torn by shrapnel. To neutralize and protect me from the gas, I urinated on my handkerchief and shielded it to my face. This is not civilization, it is madness.

As the plane lands in Atlanta, Georgia two hundred others and I are escorted by Drill Sergeants to the buses. Several hours go by and finally I arrive at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. I glance at my watch, it’s three o’clock in the morning. The Drill Sergeants are screaming “MOVE PRIVATES! WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!” I run as fast as I can to formation just to stand at the position of attention for three hours. The morning sun is beating me in the face and the Drill Sergeants are still yelling.

Meanwhile, a specific sergeant tried to make my life harder. This sergeant enjoyed agonism which “occurs among those who enjoy fighting for its own sake and who perceive trading insults as a type of game” (p.21). I constantly tried to filter out the words being filled in my head, but my internal dialogue had been so negative and judgmental for so long I really believed the bad things. I could not and did not understand that I was good person with many good characteristics. I was fighting 2 wars in a combat zone, one against terrorists in the desert and the other inside my head.

I remember the smell, the sounds, the taste of blood. I remember seeing my comrades fall beside me, the sting of the cuts. The numbness as I fell alongside them, the sadness, the tears. The price of war, I believe my father said that to me before he died. I remember being lifted and carried, I remember a laugh. Then I felt my mind slowly becoming numb, and soon my mind was consumed by the darkness. Like a wildfire it spread from the farthest of places, destroying everything in its’ path. It was over, the war was lost, hope gone; at least until today….

Through the use of symbolism, setting, and character, Erich Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front demonstrates the psychological effects war has on the soldiers.

I hope you are not distressed, nor should you worry about my return. This will be my 11th and the final letter I am sending home, my dearest apologies for the lack of letters, the war isn’t the place I thought it would be, the climate and conditions are horrid. The rest was the worst part, having to switch patrol areas to protect the frontline for hours, and then rest for a minimal time. Poor Jimmy died later earlier today, they say it was from diseases and sickness. I’ll need to be careful down in these trenches, fleas, and bugs crawling all over me. The ground is like quicksand, all the missiles, explosions and gunfire have turned the dirt into a sinking pile of mud all over the battlefield. My team, my second family are mostly gone… I don't

They provided a type of freedom; no rules or regulations were present on the front lines, as if that’s what Pyle was searching for his whole life. Along with freedom were lasting images of chaos. The scenes on the front line were bonding; the only way someone could understand the horrors of the war was if they could see it for themselves. The men experiencing the daily punishment of the front were a source of great admiration from Ernie Pyle. “The God-damned infantry, as they like to call themselves,” “the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys … that wars can’t be won without.” (pg. 91, Ernie Pyle’s War). Pyle understood how important the role of the “common man” was in Europe. He loved the underdog aspect to them, as if he could see himself in their unit fighting bravely. These men scrapped through the teeth of the German resistance, and Pyle would be damned sure they were recognized for

William, entrenched for months had not gone topside yet. He was in his early twenties, but considered the “old man” in his unit, still inexperienced in the reality of war and was dreading the day he was called to go over the top, into No Man’s Land. He had begun to recognise despair in the eyes of his mates, physically shaking before they climbed the ladders from the trenches, so courageous but yet weak with hunger, there was a constant muttering of “please God save us”. Most barely 15 years’ old when the deadly whistle blew, the order came, “Over the top boys, for Victory, Queen and Country!”.

Each individual’s life is at stake in The Things They Carried. Whether it be disease, infection, shrapnel, or snakebite, surviving was the first priority. The characters language was used sometimes to ease the pain of a friend’s death. The men would use terms like greased, lit up, offed, or zapped as a coping mechanism to describe a fellow soldier’s death.

“Gassed” is in the perspective of American artist John Sargent’s, who travelled to the front lines in 1918 and witnessed the aftermath of mustard gas attacks during the Second Battle of Arras. Source one is reliable as Sargent was a witness to the aftermath to the German barrage in 1918, thus has sound insight. “Gassed” is reliable as evidence of the camaraderie of soldiers as well as the credulous nature of commanders to the prospective injuries, due to the limited knowledge on the ramifications of mustard gas. This is evident in the soldier’s lack of protective clothing and administration of the victims. Source one is reliable due to the consistency with other sources, evident in the diary entry Sir John French , further highlighting the