This is from chapter 6
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The soldiers walk right over the wounded, they cannot be helped.
The brown earth, the torn, blasted earth, with a greasy shine under the sun's rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons, our gasping is the scratching of a quill, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor--thus we stagger forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulsed and dead soldiers, who lie there--"it can't be helped--who cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them.
All Quiet on the Western Front