We found ourselves roving around in the poorly lit, boggy, cratered landscape, and asking other, equally uninformed troops for directions. To avoid overtiring the men, I called a halt, and sent the guides out in different directions.
Sections piled arms and squeezed into a vast crater, while Lieutenant Sprenger and I perched on the rim of a smaller one, from which we could see into the big one, as from a box in the theatre. For some time now, shells had been landing a hundred paces or so in front of us. A shell landed quite close by; splinters splattered into the clay sides of the crater. A man yelled and claimed he'd been hurt in the foot. While I felt the man's muddy boot, looking for a hole, I called to the men to disperse among the surrounding shell-holes.
There was another whistle high up in the air. Everyone had the choking feeling: this one's heading our way! Then there was a huge, stunning explosion - the shell had hit in our midst.
Half stunned I stood up. From the big crater, burning machine-gun belts spilled a coarse pinkish light. It lit the smouldering smoke of the explosion, where a pile of charred bodies were writhing, and the shadows of those still living were fleeing in all directions. Simultaneously, a grisly chorus of pain and cries for help went up. The rolling motion of the dark mass in the bottom of the smoking and glowing cauldron, like a hellish vision, for an instant tore open the extreme abysm of terror.
After a moment of paralysis, of rigid shock, I leaped up, and like all the others, raced blindly into the night. I tumbled headfirst into a shell-hole, and only there did I finally grasp what had happened. - Not to see or hear anything any more, out of this place, off into deep darkness! - But the men! I had to tend to them, they were my responsibility. - I forced myself to return to that terrible place. On the way, I saw Fusilier Haller, who had captured the machine-gun at Regnieville, and I took him with me.
The wounded men were still uttering their terrible cries. A few crawled up to me, and when they recognized my voice, wailed: 'Lieutenant, sir, Lieutenant!' One of my best-loved recruits, Jasin-ski, whose thigh had been crumpled by a splinter, grabbed hold of my legs. Cursing my inability to be of assistance, I patted him feebly on the back. Moments like that are not easily shaken off.
I had to leave the unlucky ones to the one surviving stretcher-bearer in order to lead the handful of unhurt men who had gathered around me from that dreadful place. Half an hour ago at the head of a full battle-strength company, I was now wandering around a labyrinth of trenches with a few, completely demoralized men. One baby-faced fellow, who was mocked a few days ago by his comrades, and on exercises had wept under the weight of the big munitions boxes, was now loyally carrying them on our heavy way, having picked them up unasked in the crater. Seeing that did for me. I threw myself to the ground, and sobbed hysterically, while my men stood grimly about.
~ From Storm of Steel by Ernst Jünger, p. 225