An early war letter from Jünger to his parents, ca. January 1915 (published in “Feldpostbriefe an die Familie 1915-1918″)
Dear Parents!
I am also sending you a letter that I will give the field kitchen [Gulaschkanone, lit. goulash cannon] this evening. Hopefully it won’t be shot to pieces. So far I have sent two cards and one letter from O [Orainville]. My life plays out more or less as follows: 2 days in the firing line. Every 4 hours 2 hours of duty, the rest of the time is spent shivering about in dugouts. There is rarely any shooting, I have used up only one clip. It does whistle a bit, but that is entirely inconsequential. Then two days in reserve positions in the Faisanderie [Pheasantry], a manor in the middle of the artillery fields, completely intact, because it belongs to the French artillery colonel. Then again 2 days in firing positions. Then 4 days of rest in O. There we dig hard, day and night. We also always have morning and noon salutes. There is not much food. You wouldn’t believe what we look like. I have become nearly impervious to cold. When one gets warm the knees start to hurt. My first war impressions have disappointed me a little. When the first shells and bullets came flying almost all of us laughed. I could look calmly and for a long time at the screaming of those hit, the blood and the brain of the guard by the castle gate*. That shell has so far killed 12 men, 3 lie wounded still. I think in Hanover I would have fainted at the sight, but I am happy that my nerves are this strong. Shelling is anyway quite interesting. Rumms-ssssssssssss-Bumms! [Crash-ssssssssssss-thud!] The Frenchmen shoot very well, especially the English heavy artillery. When our artillery fires it cracks from over there out of 5, 6 different directions. With my [field] glass I could watch our shells detonating in a village. Close to us is a legendary gun that has the purpose of drawing enemy fire. All the spokes and everything is shot to pieces. As soon as the cannoneers have fired one shot they move out. The lieutenant has often been knocked over by the shock waves, one time a dud went through between his legs. Yesterday I stood with a comrade on sentry post. A narrow path is deployed 100m forward from our trench, 50m in front of us lay the French dead from the last assault. It looked strange, how the figures with the red trousers and blue coats lay there stiffly stretched out or with their knees drawn up. The faces were already black as I noticed with the glass. Peculiar, these dead that lie in the fields for months. At first they lay tightly packed, the ones nearby have already at night been dug in a bit by us. Of some only green grassy spots are left. When I studied them someone from over there shot at us, missing not by much. I couldn’t deny myself the satisfaction of firing a shot at the edge of the enemy’s trenches. How are you? Please write sometime soon. What I’m missing the most I have already written you: a knife, shag tobacco, cigarettes, bonbons, chocolate, socks, a shirt, lard and some canned meat or sausage.
In a hurry
Ernst
* see Storm of Steel, Chapter 1