While Storm of Steel is tightly focused on the experiences of Ernst Jünger and his fellow German soldiers, other people—like British and French soldiers, and French and Flemish civilians in occupied lands—make frequent appearances, too. In most respects, Jünger seems to be a product of his early 20th-century nationalistic culture in his attitudes about distancing himself from conquered people and combatants. But his stories of encounters with non-Germans also shed more light on his individual character than perhaps anything else in the memoir. By portraying himself not just as a soldier among soldiers, but also as a human being finding common ground and empathizing with others, Jünger portrays himself as a sympathetic figure, suggesting than remaining in touch with one’s humanity is actually indispensable for a good soldier.
In one sense, Jünger maintains a careful distance from foreigners and enemies. At other times, however, two opposing sides are able to find common ground. As the German army moves through various destroyed villages, Jünger is not insensitive to the destruction he sees: “The desolation and the profound silence […] were heightened by the sorry impression of devastation. Ripped haversacks, broken rifles, scraps of cloth, counterpointed grotesquely with children’s toys, shell fuses, deep craters from explosions, bottles, harvest implements, shredded books, battered household gear […] all that, with a half-buried communication trench running through it, and all suffused with the smell of burning and decay. Sad thoughts are apt to sneak up on the warrior in such a locale, when he thinks of those who only recently led their lives in tranquillity.” Jünger pointedly juxtaposes implements of war with items, like toys and books, from peacetime life. Even a “warrior” thinks about those whose suffering is silently pictured in such locations—yet, it’s also a warrior’s prerogative not to dwell on such things. While tragic, it’s also not his problem.
Distance between different sides is not absolute, but it always makes relationships complex. Jünger describes friendly acquaintances made while occupying foreign territories: “Before long, all of us had struck up our various friendships and relationships, and on our afternoons off we could be seen striding through the countryside, making for this or that farmstead, to take a seat in a sparkling clean kitchen round one of the low stoves, on whose round tops a big pot of coffee was kept going. We chatted away in a blend of Flemish and Lower Saxon.” This appreciative description shows that occupiers and occupied citizens can share space peacefully, spend pleasant hours around the table, and even converse in linguistically similar tongues. These apparently genuine, warm relations nevertheless wouldn’t have happened if Germany weren’t waging war and occupying other countries—showing the inherently complicated nature of wartime relations.
Recognizing that there is humanity to be found on both sides of any given conflict, Jünger’s openness to others also prompts him to treat them with respect, even sparing the life of an enemy on at least one occasion. Jünger is frank and forthright about his opinion of the enemy, recognizing their common soldierly status: “Throughout the war, it was always my endeavour to view my opponent without animus, and to form an opinion of him as a man on the basis of the courage he showed. I would always try and seek him out in combat and kill him, and I expected nothing else from him. But never did I entertain mean thoughts of him. When prisoners fell into my hands, later on, I felt responsible for their safety, and would always do everything in my power for them.” Part of the warrior’s ethic, in Jünger’s view, is to respect a fellow soldier for the way he comports himself on the battlefield and not to fight out of a sense of hatred. Soldiers know soldiers, in other words.
Jünger shows compassion for civilians, recognizing their common humanity. While quartered with a family in a Flemish village, “the town was once again bombed. I […] switched on my torch to settle the nerves of the little girl, who had been screaming ever since an explosion had knocked out the light. Here was proof again of man’s need for home. In spite of the huge fear these women had in the face of such danger, yet they clung fast to the ground which at any moment might bury them.” He never reflects at length on such people; like his comments on manliness or death, Jünger is restrained in his assessment of other people. But he doesn’t withhold his admiration for these women who remain steadfast in the face of an imminent threat—rather like soldiers holding their ground. Again, he sees something in these foreigners that resonates with his own view of the world.
Finally, Jünger’s recognition of others’ humanity even prompts him to show mercy at times. Near the end of the war, Jünger finds himself holding his pistol to the temple of a British soldier: “With a plaintive sound, he reached into his pocket, not to pull out a weapon, but a photograph which he held up to me. I saw him on it, surrounded by numerous family, all standing on a terrace. It was a plea from another world.” After letting him go, “That one man of all often appeared in my dreams. I hope that meant he got to see his homeland again.” Again, Jünger tersely recognizes the humanity of his British counterpart. Throughout the war, he never hesitates to kill, but in this fleeting instance, the photograph momentarily transplants the two men in the world beyond the war, and this shared moment prompts Jünger to let the man go.
Though the scene with the desperate British soldier is moving, it’s also not completely surprising—Jünger’s appreciative and sometimes compassionate appraisals of foreigners and the enemy serve to prepare the reader for this memorable encounter. As a whole, Jünger’s attitudes toward others make him a fairly sympathetic figure throughout; he is realistic in his loyalty to his country, but not triumphalist, and never wantonly cruel.
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Foreigners, Enemies, and Empathy Quotes in Storm of Steel
The desolation and the profound silence, sporadically broken by the crump of shells, were heightened by the sorry impression of devastation. Ripped haversacks, broken rifles, scraps of cloth, counterpointed grotesquely with children’s toys, shell fuses, deep craters from explosions, bottles, harvest implements, shredded books, battered household gear, holes whose gaping darkness betrayed the presence of basements, where the bodies of the unlucky inhabitants of the houses were gnawed by the particularly assiduous swarms of rats; […] trenches dug through the ravaged gardens, in among sprouting bulbs of onions, wormwood, rhubarb, narcissus, buried under weeds; on the neighbouring fields grain barns, through whose roofs the grain was already sprouting; all that, with a half-buried communication trench running through it, and all suffused with the smell of burning and decay. Sad thoughts are apt to sneak up on the warrior in such a locale, when he thinks of those who only recently led their lives in tranquillity.
Throughout the war, it was always my endeavour to view my opponent without animus, and to form an opinion of him as a man on the basis of the courage he showed. I would always try and seek him out in combat and kill him, and I expected nothing else from him. But never did I entertain mean thoughts of him. When prisoners fell into my hands, later on, I felt responsible for their safety, and would always do everything in my power for them.
He was the first German soldier I saw in a steel helmet, and he straightaway struck me as the denizen of a new and far harsher world. […] The impassive features under the rim of the steel helmet and the monotonous voice accompanied by the noise of the battle made a ghostly impression on us. A few days had put their stamp on the runner, who was to escort us into the realm of flame, setting him inexpressibly apart from us.
“If a man falls, he’s left to lie. No one can help. No one knows if he’ll return alive. Every day we’re attacked, but they won’t get through. Everyone knows this is about life and death.”
Nothing was left in this voice but equanimity, apathy; fire had burned everything else out of it. It’s men like that that you need for fighting.
As far back as the Siegfried Line, every village was reduced to rubble, every tree chopped down, every road undermined, every well poisoned, every basement blown up or booby-trapped, every rail unscrewed, every telephone wire rolled up, everything burnable burned; in a word, we were turning the country that our advancing opponents would occupy into a wasteland.
As I say, the scenes were reminiscent of a madhouse, and the effect of them was similar: half funny, half repellent. They were also, we could see right away, bad for the men’s morale and honour. Here, for the first time, I witnessed wanton destruction that I was later in life to see to excess; this is something that is unhealthily bound up with the economic thinking of our age, but it does more harm than good to the destroyer, and dishonours the soldier.
In the evening, the town was once again bombed. I went down into the cellar, where the women were huddled trembling in a corner, and switched on my torch to settle the nerves of the little girl, who had been screaming ever since an explosion had knocked out the light. Here was proof again of man’s need for home. In spite of the huge fear these women had in the face of such danger, yet they clung fast to the ground which at any moment might bury them.
I had to leave the unlucky ones to the one surviving stretcher-bearer in order to lead the handful of unhurt men who had gathered around me from that dreadful place. Half an hour ago at the head of a full battle-strength company, I was now wandering around a labyrinth of trenches with a few, completely demoralized men. One baby-faced fellow, who was mocked a few days ago by his comrades, and on exercises had wept under the weight of the big munitions boxes, was now loyally carrying them on our heavy way, having picked them up unasked in the crater. Seeing that did for me. I threw myself to the ground, and sobbed hysterically, while my men stood grimly about.
A bloody scene with no witnesses was about to happen. It was a relief to me, finally, to have the foe in front of me and within reach. I set the mouth of the pistol at the man’s temple - he was too frightened to move - while my other fist grabbed hold of his tunic, feeling medals and badges of rank. An officer; he must have held some command post in these trenches. With a plaintive sound, he reached into his pocket, not to pull out a weapon, but a photograph which he held up to me. I saw him on it, surrounded by numerous family, all standing on a terrace.
It was a plea from another world. Later, I thought it was blind chance that I let him go and plunged onward. That one man of all often appeared in my dreams. I hope that meant he got to see his homeland again.
Outside it lay my British soldier, little more than a boy, who had been hit in the temple. He lay there, looking quite relaxed. I forced myself to look closely at him. It wasn’t a case of ‘you or me’ any more. I often thought back on him; and more with the passing of the years. The state, which relieves us of our responsibility, cannot take away our remorse; and we must exercise it. Sorrow, regret, pursued me deep into my dreams.
During the endless hours flat on your back, you try to distract yourself to pass the time; once, I reckoned up my wounds. Leaving out trifles such as ricochets and grazes, I was hit at least fourteen times, these being five bullets, two shell splinters, one shrapnel ball, four hand-grenade splinters and two bullet splinters, which, with entry and exit wounds, left me an even twenty scars. In the course of this war, where so much of the firing was done blindly into empty space, I still managed to get myself targeted no fewer than eleven times. I felt every justification, therefore, in donning the gold wound-stripes, which arrived for me one day.
