Road Back by Erich Maria Remarque — Read

I lie outstretched on the sofa, my head against the, arm, and my eyes closed. My thoughts move through my drowse in fantastic confusion. Consciousness hovers between waking and dream, and weariness like a shadow rides through my brain. Beyond, indistinctly, distant gun-fire floats in, shells pipe over softly, and the tinny ringing of gongs sounds nearer, announcing a gas-attack. But before I can grope for my gas-mask the darkness recedes without sound, the earth, against which my face is pressed, dissolves before a feeling of warmth, more bright; it turns again into the plush sofa-cover on which my cheek rests. Dimly, deep down, I am aware it is home. The gas-alarm of the trenches resolves into the subdued clatter of dishes which my mother is setting out cautiously on the table.

Then the darkness glides up swiftly again, and with it a rumble of artillery. And only out of the far distance, as if they came up over forests and seas, I hear words dropping down, words that gradually sort themselves to a meaning and then penetrate in to me. "Uncle Karl sent the sausage," says the voice of my mother amid the faint roll of the guns.