"Under Fire" by Henri Barbusse, translated by Fitzwater, is a compelling and unvarnished depiction of the brutal realities of World War I. Originally published in 1916, this groundbreaking novel draws from Barbusse's own harrowing 22 months in the trenches, offering an intimate and instructive testimony of the horrors faced by soldiers.
Through the eyes of his protagonist, Barbusse presents a stark portrayal of the war’s physical and psychological toll. His narrative is marked by its intense realism and emotional depth, vividly capturing the daily struggles, camaraderie, and profound sense of futility experienced on the front lines. The novel's raw authenticity reflects the poet's belief that, at times, the poetry of words is the only means to convey the full weight of reality.
Translated with precision by Fitzwater, this edition preserves the emotional impact and vivid imagery of Barbusse’s original prose, making it accessible to English-speaking readers. The translation ensures that the novel’s powerful depiction of war retains its impact and poignancy.
"Under Fire" remains a major literary work that offers a profound reflection on the human condition in times of conflict. It serves as both a historical document and a timeless exploration of the cost of war and the resilience of the human spirit. This edition is an essential read for those seeking to understand the true impact of warfare on those who endure it.
Sample :
RUDELY awakened in the dark, I open my eyes: "What? What's up?"
"Your turn on guard—it's two o'clock in the morning," says Corporal Bertrand at the opening into the hole where I am prostrate on the floor. I hear him without seeing him.
"I'm coming," I growl, and shake myself, and yawn in the little sepulchral shelter. I stretch my arms, and my hands touch the soft and cold clay. Then I cleave the heavy odor that fills the dug-out and crawl out in the middle of the dense gloom between the collapsed bodies of the sleepers. After several stumbles and entanglements among accouterments, knapsacks and limbs stretched out in all directions, I put my hand on my rifle and find myself upright in the open air, half awake and dubiously balanced, assailed by the black and bitter breeze.
Shivering, I follow the corporal; he plunges in between the dark embankments whose lower ends press strangely and closely on our march. He stops; the place is here. I make out a heavy mass half-way up the ghostly wall which comes loose and descends from it with a whinnying yawn, and I hoist myself into the niche which it had occupied.
The moon is hidden by mist, but a very weak and uncertain light overspreads the scene, and one's sight gropes its way. Then a wide strip of darkness, hovering and gliding up aloft, puts it out. Even after touching the breastwork and the loophole in front of my face I can hardly make them out, and my inquiring hand discovers, among an ordered deposit of things, a mass of grenade handles.
