The Road Back by Erich Maria Remarque Page B

tunic from which the badges of rank have been removed, now steps out from the gang. He advances a few paces. "Are you comrades, or not?" he calls.
    Willy gasps; he is outraged. "Well! I'll be damned! That's what we're asking you, you white-livered calf!" he retorts indignantly. "Who was it started attacking wounded men?"
    The other stops short. "Did you do that?" he asks of the fellows behind him.
    "He wouldn't take down his shoulder-straps," answers one of the group.
    The man makes an impatient gesture and turns toward us again. "They shouldn't have done that, Comrades. But you don't seem to understand what is the matter. Where have you come from, anyway?"
    "From the Front, of course; where else do you think?" snorts Willy.
    "And where are you going?"
    "Where you've been all the war—back home."
    "Comrade," says the man, showing an empty sleeve, "I didn't lose that at home."
    "That doesn't make it any better," says Willy, unmoved. "In that case you ought to be ashamed to be seen with that push of upstart toy soldiers."
    The sergeant comes nearer. "It's revolution," he says quietly, "and who isn't for us is against us."
    Willy laughs. "Bloody fine revolution, no mistake! with your Society for the Removal of Shoulder-Straps! If that's all you want—" He spits contemptuously.
    "Not so fast, mate," says the one-armed man now walking swiftly toward him. "We do want a lot more! We want an end of war, an end of all this hatred! an end of murder! That's what we're after. We want to be men again, not war machines!"
    Willy lowers his hand-grenade. "A damned fine beginning that was, I must say," he says, pointing to Ludwig's trampled bandage. Then with a few bounds he makes for the mob. "Yes, you cut along home to your mothers, you snotty-nosed brats!" he roars as they give back before him. "Want to be men, do you? Why, you aren't even decent soldiers yet! To see the way you hold your rifles, ft makes a man scared, you'll be breaking your fingers next!"
    The gang starts to run. Willy turns round and stands towering before the sergeant. "And now I have something to say to youl We've had as much a bellyful of this business as you; and there's going to be an end of it, too, that's certain. But not your way. What we do we do of ourselves; it is a long time now since we have taken orders from any man. But see now!"
    Two rips, and he has torn off his shoulder-straps. "I'm doing this because I myself wish it; not at all because you wish it. It's my business—understand? But that chap," he points to Ludwig, "he's our lieutenant, and he's keeping his—and God help any man who says he's not!"
    The one-armed man nods. Something in his face quickens. "I was there, too, mate," he blurts out. "I know what is what, as well as you do. Here . . ." he shows his stump excitedly, "Twentieth Infantry Division, Verdun."
    "So were we," says Willy laconically. "Well—good luck."
    He puts on his pack and slings his rifle once more. We march on. As Ludwig passes him, the sergeant with the red armband suddenly brings his hand to his cap, and we understand his meaning. He is saluting not a uniform, not the war—he is saluting his mates from the Front.
    Willy's home is nearest. He waves gaily across the street in the direction of the little house. "Hullo, you old horsebox !—Home is the sailor!"
    We propose to wait for him but Willy refuses. "We'll see Ludwig home first," he says, spoiling for fight. "I'll be getting my potato-salad and my curtain lectures quite soon enough."
    We stop a while on the road to spruce ourselves up so that our parents shall not see we have come fresh from a fight. I wipe Ludwig's face and we take off his bandage to cover up the traces of blood, so that his mother may not be alarmed. Later, of course, he will have to go to the hospital and get his bandages renewed.
    We arrive without further disturbance. Ludwig still looks rather the worse for his drubbing. "Don't let that worry you," I say, shaking him by the hand. Willy puts