Personal Narrative-All Quiet On The Western Front

Men were living outside for days or weeks on end, with limited shelter from cold, wind, rain and snow in the winter or from the heat and sun in summer. Artillery destroyed the familiar landscape, reducing trees and buildings to desolate rubble and churning up endless mud in some areas. The incredible noise of artillery and machine gun fire, both enemy and friendly, was often incessant. Yet soldiers spent a great deal of time waiting around, and in some quiet sectors there was little real fighting and a kind of informal truce could develop between the two sides. Even in more active parts of the front, battle was rarely continuous and boredom was common among troops, with little of the heroism and excitement many had imagined before the war. The Italian infantry officer Emilio Lussu wrote that life in the trenches was ‘grim and monotonous’ and that ‘if there were no attacks, there was no war, only hard work’.[1] The order to attack – or news of an enemy assault – changed

Fritz Franke starts his letter by painting a picture of the western front, “Every foot of ground contested; every hundred yards another trench; and everywhere bodies – rows of them! All the trees shot to pieces; the whole ground churned up a yard deep by the heaviest shells; dead animals; houses and churches so utterly destroyed by shell-fire that they can never be of the least use again.” The western front of the first Great War was a huge stalemate that essentially became a gigantic burial-ground. After describing the western front Franke began to describe the jubilance of being done for the day and going to take a break even though he knew that you had to be alert and ready to go back to fighting in an instant. Franke ends his letter with an odd change to the tone; he goes on to compare the war to being pleasant.

“GAS! Gas! Quickly men!” I remember that day like it was yesterday. The new recruits were training and were trembling in their boots. Sergeant Williams they called me. I was the officer in charge of B company, preparing them to protect themselves from the mustard gas bombs they would encounter in the trenches. “GAS! Gas! Quickly men!” I would roar like a great lion and they would rush to get their masks on.

Shadowy clouds hover over No Man’s Land, they were all fed up with the war, the lives it had already claimed, the unburied dead and the smell, oh my god, the smell. Life in the trenches was unbearable, cold, muddy, vermin and parasites that consume your skin for food. Every man entombed in the trenches dreaded the day they would hear the whistle, the whistle to move forward into No Man’s Land.

Every autumn, the leaves change colors. The breathtaking reds, yellows, and oranges fill the trees with life. However, when the dull and wilted browns come, many feel dismayed at the change which takes away the pleasantness of autumn. Erich Maria Remarque’s novel All Quiet on the Western Front, shows a similar heartbreaking change that can be seen in Paul and his comrades. They soldiers leave home as vibrant, red, leaves, and come back as a shriveled, brown leaves. They feel the affect of the catastrophic events thought the brutality and despair they experience. The war destroys the soldiers’ former selves and causes them to lose their innocence, their identity, and their hope.

The storm clouds were dark, gloomy and grim like a graveyard. They were near the surface of the earth. It was going to rain. They were lingering on. The soldiers’ uniforms were repeatedly buffeted by the howling gale. The sky was as black as a devil’s soul. A large boom echoed across the crimson battlefield as the lighting returned the thunder’s call. Endless calls for help could be heard. Then, the rain started pouring down, filling up the battle field, like a flood, as the constant sound of the rain pounding on the metal could be heard. Heavy boots pressed down on the wet mud, which would not be dry for the next week, due to the trenches. The trenches were six-foot-deep and reeked of dead bodies and human excrement.

People who have never experienced the war portray it as “grotesque.” (O’Brien 77) They’ve never truly listened to the soldier's stories, Tim O’Brien is able to find beauty within the “awful majesty of combat.” (O’Brien 77) The metaphor comparing the “trace rounds” to “brilliant red ribbons” illustrate the war in a completely different light. (O’Brien 77) The respect for “the fluid symmetries of troops” shows the organization of the war and the training and preparing that the troops do to serve our country and protect Americans. (O’Brien 77) There is beauty within these individuals and their stories of why they decided to risk their lives to protect us. Tim O’Brien’s simile comparing a “bombing raid” or “artillery barrage” to “a killer forest fire” or “cancer under a microscope” explains the “aesthetic purity” within the war. (O’Brien 77) Tim O’Brien puts the war into an idea that his readers can understand, he proves it’s possible to find beauty even in a

As an illustration, the author describes the scenery of the battlefield, “The most vivid images of the war show soldiers facing the hardships and terrors of battle. Some confronted the enemy in well-defined battles in the highlands. Others cut their way through the jungle, where they heard but seldom saw the enemy. Still others waded through rice paddies and searched rural villages for guerrillas… They were rarely safe. Enemy rockets and mortars could--and did--strike anywhere” (Boyer 2). By using descriptive language, the author illustrates the soldiers surroundings and evoke the reader’s sense of terror. With this in mind, this gives the readers a better understanding of how inhumane war is and how the severity of war torments soldiers by them through physiological traumatizing experiences. Furthermore, the author quotes a nurse recalling her experiences in a field hospital, “We really saw the worse of it, because the nurses never saw any of the victories...I remember one boy who was brought in missing two legs and an arm, and his eyes were bandaged. A general came in later and pinned a Purple Heart on the boy’s hospital gown, and the horror of it all was so amazing that it just took my breath away. You thought, was this supposed to be an even trade?” (Boyer 2). By using imagery, the author cites a nurse who describes the boy’s injuries in detail and appeals

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you all, but I do hope you all are well. It has been a rough three months since I've joined the other nurses in aiding this war and needless to say I have settled in and adapted to the conditions. Since the beginning, nothing has changed within these 3 months, neither side had gotten much advantage of the war. It would be as if a back and forward tug of war between the two sides. Everyday I watch from the tent as hundreds of men rot away in the horrid conditions of the trenches. Many were brought in but many doesn't mean all. After barely being treated and having about a week of recovery soldiers were sent back to suffer in the battlefield. A few weeks ago a huge storm crossed the battlefield. The trenches

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.

If I could go back to any time in the world, I would go back to France in October 1944 on the Western Front. World War Two has always interested me. Being able to see the revolutionary weapons would be incredible. I would also love to take part in such a historic and epic war. War is a horrible event that plays a major part in human development.

It is about the middle of the day and we are on our way to somewhere right outside of Paris. The

On January 29, 1929, just 10 years, 2 months, 18 days after the Great War, All Quiet on the Western Front, was published and it’s author was of a scarred man by the name of Erich Maria Remarque, who served in the German army during the first World War. The bloodied, bombed, and distraught landscape painted by Remarque was one only a veteran of conflict can picture because of his experiences as a plain and insignificant infantryman wrought by the plague of the Second Horseman, the Red Horseman of the Apocalypse. The intent of the novel was very much akin to being a metaphorical morphine to Remarque as a way to cope with the forever echoing screams and endless gun shots of No Man’s Land but pursues the man to his home. There a stark certainty that some, if not most of Remarque’s experiences find their way into the protagonist, Paul Bäumer.

turning my head again I saw Simon dive to my aid. He did not utter a

When I walked through my front door, I collapsed on the welcome seat in the foyer. I didn’t really have any knowledge of what to do, so that was my response. I sat there for as long as I could so when I stood up and saw the time, I knew he was already gone so I didn’t have to beat myself up debating whether to go and say one last