Curse! I must not go on brooding over it any longer, or it will drive me mad. Your rifle at the ready! The enemy is facing you! Has that ceased to be a case of man to man? What does it matter even if the bullet finds its billet more surely? Aim steadily--straight for the chest.... Who is it really facing me? The man I am now going to shoot dead! An enemy? What is an enemy? And again I see myself on that glorious morning of my holidays, at a French railway station, and again I am gazing curiously out of the window. A foreign country and a stranger-people. The moment for departure has come. The station-master is just giving the signal. Then a little old woman extends her trembling hand to the window, and a fine young fellow in our carriage takes the wrinkled hand and strokes it, until the old woman's tears course down her motherly cheeks. Not a word does she speak. She only looks at her boy, and the lad gazes down on his mother. Then it flashes upon me like a revelation. Foreigners can shed tears. Why, that is just the same thing it is with us. They weep when they take leave of one another. They love one another and feel grief.... And as the train rolled out of the station, I kept on looking out of the window and seeing the old woman standing on the platform so desolately, and gazing after the train without stirring. I could not help thinking of my own mother. It was I myself who was saying good-by there, and on the platform yonder my poor old mother was in tears. Pocket-handkerchiefs were floating in the breeze. They were waving their hands, and I waved mine too; for I, too, was one who belonged to her.... And again I put my rifle to my shoulder, and take aim for the centre of the target. I will not go on torturing myself with these thoughts. The target seems to have been moved nearer to me. Of a sudden it seems to me as if the blue-painted figure had stepped out of its white square. I gape at it. I distinctly see a face in front of me. I have got my finger on the trigger, and feel the tension of the pressure. Why don't I pull it through? My finger is trembling.... Now, now, I recognize the face. That is the young fellow at Nancy who was saying good-by to his mother.... Then the spring gives, and the great horror masters me, for I have fired straight into a living face. Murderer! Murderer! You have shot the only son of his mother dead. Thou art thy brother's murderer.... I take a hold on myself. I pull myself together. A murderer? Folly! A spook! You are a soldier. Soldiers cease to be human beings. The Fatherland is at stake. And without turning a hair I take aim at the enemy. If you miss him he will get you. "Got him! In the middle of the chest." CHAPTER III OUR FATHER WHICH ART IN HEAVEN We rejoined the Colors on Friday. On Monday we are to move out. Today, being Sunday, is full-dress Church Parade. I slept badly last night, and am feeling uneasy and limp. And now we are sitting close-packed in church.