Guy Sajer - The Forgotten Soldier

My parents imposed an absolute silence; I would never be able to tell them the things which would have relieved me.

I listened attentively to the tales of the heroes on the other side heroes to whose ranks I would never be admitted.

People who hated me would pursue me with vindictiveness, seeing in my past only cupidity and culpable error. Others might someday understand that men can love the same virtues on both sides of a conflict, and that pain is international.

The French Army, which I had entered for a three-year tour, finally kept me for only ten months. Despite my sense of well-being, I fell seriously ill and in the end was sent home.

However, before that, I took part in a huge parade in Paris, in ’46. There was also a long silence of remembrance for the dead, to which I added these names:

Ernst Neubach, Lensen, Wiener, Wesreidau, Prinz, Solma, Hoth, Olensheim, Sperlovski, Smellens, Dunde, Kellerman, Freivitch, Ballers, Frösch, Woortenbeck, Siemenleis…

I refuse to add Paula to that list, and I shall never forget the names of Hals, or Lindberg, or Pferham, or Wollers. Their memory lives within me.

There is another man, whom I must forget. He was called Guy Sajer.

Sergeant.

Military automobile, similar to a jeep.

A log hut.

Collective farm.

Machine gun from the Spandau works.

Anti-tank guns.

Assault gun.

Infantry.

Senior lance corporal, or acting corporal.

“A louse means death!”

This was not strictly speaking true: I had written to Paula at least twenty times, and only once to my family.

Home-brewed alcoholic drink.