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The Grave by Orville R. Emerson. The end of the story was first

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brought to my attention when Fromwiller returned
from his trip to Mount Kemmel with a

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very strange tale, indeed, and
one extremely hard to believe. But I

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believed enough of it to go back
to the mount with From and see if

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we could discover anything more. And
after digging for a while at the place

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where From's story began, we made
our way into an old dugout that had

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been caved in, or at least
where all the entrances had been filled with

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dirt, and where we found written
on German correspondence paper a terrible story.

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We found the story on Christmas Day
nineteen sixteen from Watteau and Flanders, where

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our regiment was stationed. Of course, you have heard of Mount Kemel in

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Flanders more than once. It figured
in newspaper reports as it changed hands during

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some of the fiercest fighting of the
war, and when the Germans were finally

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driven from this point of vantage in
October nineteen eighteen, our retreat was started,

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which did not end until it became
a race to see who could get

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to Germany first. The advance was
so fast that the victorious British and French

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forces had no time to bury their
dead, and terrible as it may seem

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to those who have not seen it, in December of that year, one

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could see the rotting corpses of the
unburied dead scattered here and there over the

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top of Mount Kemel. It was
a place of ghostly sightings and sickening odors,

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and it was there that we found
this tale. With the chaplain's help,

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we translated the story which follows.
For two weeks, I have been

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buried alive. For two weeks,
I have not seen daylight nor heard the

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sound of another person's voice. Unless
I can find something to do besides this

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everlasting digging, I shall go mad. So I shall write as long as

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my candles last. I will pass
part of the time each day in setting

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down on paper my experiences. Not
that I need to do this in order

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to remember them. God knows that
when I get out, the first thing

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I shall do will be try to
forget them. But if I should not

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get out. I am an ober
lieutenant in the Imperial German Army. Two

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weeks ago my regiment was holding Mount
Kemmel in Flanders. We were surrounded on

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three sides and subjected to a terrific
artillery, but on account of the commanding

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position, we were ordered to hold
them out to the last man. Our

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engineers, however, had made things
very comfortable. Numerous deep dugouts had been

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constructed, and in them we were
comparatively safe from the shell fire. Many

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of these had been connected by passageways, so that there was a regular little

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underground city, and the majority of
the garrison never left the protection of the

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dugouts. But even under these conditions, our casualties were heavy. Lookouts had

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to be maintained above ground, and
once in a while a direct hit by

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one of the huge railway guns would
even destroy some of the dugouts. A

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little over two weeks ago, I
can't be sure, because I have lost

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track of the exact number of days, the usual shelling was increased one hundredfold,

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with about twenty others. I was
sleeping in one of the shallower dugouts.

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The tremendous increase in shelling awakened me
with a start, and my first

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impulse was to go at once into
a deeper dugout, which was connected to

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the one I was in by an
underground passageway. It was a smaller dugout,

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built a few feet lower than the
one I was in. It had

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been used as a sort of store
room, and no one was supposed to

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sleep there, but it seemed safer
to me, and alone, I crept

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into it. A thousand times since
I have wished I had taken another man

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with me, but my chances for
doing it were soon gone. I had

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hardly entered the smaller dugout when there
was a tremendous explosion behind me. The

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ground shook as if a mine had
exploded below us. Whether that was indeed

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the case, or whether some extra
large caliber explo whose shell had struck the

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dugout behind me, I never knew. After the shock of the explosion had

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passed, I went back to the
passageway, When about halfway along it,

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I found the timbers had fallen,
allowing the earth to settle, and my

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way was effectively blocked. So I
returned to the dugout and waited alone through

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several hours of terrific shelling. The
only other entrance to the dugout I was

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in was the main entrance from the
trench above, and all those who had

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been above ground had gone into dugouts
long before this so I could not expect

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anyone to enter while the shelling continued, and when it ceased, there would

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surely be an attack. As I
did not want to be killed by a

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grenade thrown down the entrance, I
remained awake in order to rush out at

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the first signs of cessation of the
bombardment and join what comrades there may be

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left on the hill. After about
six hours of heavy bombardment, all sound

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above ground seemed to cease. Five
minutes went by, then ten. Surely

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the attack was coming. I rushed
to the stairway leading to the air I

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took a couple of strides up the
stairs. There was a blinding flash and

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a deafening explosion. I felt myself
falling. The darkness swallowed everything. How

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long I lay unconscious in the dugout
I never knew, But after what seemed

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like a long time, I practically
grew conscious of a dull ache in my

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left arm. I could not move
it. I opened my eyes and found

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only darkness. I felt pain and
a stiffness all over my body. Slowly

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I arose, struck a match,
found a candle and lit it and looked

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at my watch. It had stopped
I did not know how long I had

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remained there unconscious. All the noise
of the bombardment had ceased. I stood

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and listened for some time, but
could hear no sound of any kind.

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My gaze fell on the stairway entrance. I started in alarm. The end

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of the dugout where the entrance was
was half filled with dirt. I went

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over and looked closer. The entrance
was completely filled with dirt at the bottom,

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and no light of any kind could
be seen from above. I went

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to the passageway to the other dugout, although I remembered it had caved in.

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I examined the fallen timbers closely between
two of them. I could feel

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a slight movement of air. Here
was an opening to the outside world.

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I tried to move the timbers as
well as I could with one arm,

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only to precipitate a small avalanche of
dirt which filled the crack quickly. I

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dug at the dirt until I could
feel the movement of air. This might

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be the only place where I could
obtain fresh air. I was convinced that

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it would take some little work to
open up either of the passages, and

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I began to feel hungry. Luckily, there was a good supply of canned

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foods and hard bread, for the
officers had kept their rations stored in the

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dugout. I also found a keg
of water and about a dozen bottles of

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wine, which I discovered to be
very good. After I had relieved my

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appetite and finished one of the bottles
of wine, felt sleepy, and although

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my left arm pained me considerably,
I soon dropped off to sleep. The

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time I have allowed myself for writing
is up, so I will stop for

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today. After I have performed my
daily task of digging. Tomorrow I shall

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again write. Already my mind feels
easier. Surely help will come soon.

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At any rate. Within two more
weeks, I shall have liberated myself.

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Already I am halfway up the stairs, and my rations will last that long.

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I have divided them so they will. Yesterday I did not feel like

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writing after I finished my digging.
My arm pained me considerably. I guess

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I used it too much. But
today I was more careful with it,

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and it feels better, and I
am worried again. Twice today, big

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piles of earth caved in where the
timbers above were loose, and every time

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as much dirt fell into the passageway
as I can remove in a day.

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Two days more before I can count
on getting out by myself, the rations

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will have to be stretched out some
more. The daily amount is already pretty

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small, but I shall go on
with my account. From the time I

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became conscious, I started my watch, and since then I have kept track

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of the days. On the second
day, I took stock of the food,

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water, wood, matches, candles, et cetera, and found a

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plentiful supply for two weeks at least. At the time, I did not

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look forward to staying more than a
few days in my prison. Either the

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enemy or ourselves will occupy the hill, I told myself, because it is

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such an important position, and whoever
holds the hill will be compelled to dig

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in deeply in order to hold it. So to my mind, it was

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only a matter of a few days
until either the entrance or the passageway would

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be cleared, and my only doubts
were as to whether it would be friends

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or enemies that would discover me.
My arm felt better, though I could

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not use it much, and so
I spent the day in reading an old

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newspaper which I found among the food
supplies, and in waiting for help to

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come. What a fool I was. If I only worked from the start,

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I would be just that many days
nearer deliverance. On the third day,

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I was annoyed by water which began
dripping from the roof and seeping in

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at the sides of the dugout.
I cursed that muddy water then, as

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I have often cursed such dugout nuisances
before. But it may be that I

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shall yet bless that water, and
it will save my life. But it

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certainly made things uncomfortable. So I
spent the day in moving my bunk,

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food and water supplies, candles,
et cetera up into the passageway for a

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space of about ten feet. It
is unobstructed, and, being slightly higher

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than the dugout, was drier and
more comfortable. Besides, the air has

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been much better here, as I
had found that practically all my supplies of

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fresh air came in through the crack
between the timbers, and I thought maybe

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the rats wouldn't bother me so much
at night. Again, I spent the

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balance of the day simply in waiting
for help. It was not until well

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into the fourth day that I really
began to feel uneasy. It suddenly began

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to impress on my consciousness that I
had not heard the sound of a gun

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or felt the earth shake from the
force of a concussion since the fatal shell

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that had filled the entrance. What
was the meaning of the silence? Why

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did I hear no sounds of fighting? It was as still as the grave,

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but a horrible death to die buried
alive. A panic of fear swept

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over me, But my will and
reason reasserted itself. In time, I

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should be able to dig myself out
by my own efforts. It would take

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time, but it could be done
so, although I could not use my

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left arm as yet. I spent
the rest of that day and all of

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the two following days in digging dirt
from the entrance and carrying it back into

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the far corner of the dugout.
On the seventh day, after regaining consciousness,

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I was tired and stiff from my
unwonted exertions of the three previous days.

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I could see by this time that
it was a matter of weeks two

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or three at least before I could
hope to liberate myself. I might be

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rescued at an earlier date, but
without outside aid it would take probably three

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more weeks of labor before I could
dig my way out. Already dirt had

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caved in from the top where the
timbers had sprung apart, and I could

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repair the damage to the roof of
the stairway only in a crude way with

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one arm, But my left arm
was much better. With a day's rest,

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I would be able to use it
pretty well. Besides, I must

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conserve my energy, so I spent
the seventh day in rest and prayer for

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my speedy release from a living grave. I also reapportioned my food on the

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basis of three more weeks. It
made the daily portions pretty small, especially

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as the digging was strenuous work.
There was a large supply of candles,

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so that I had plenty of light
for my work, but the supply of

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water bothered me. Almost half of
the small keg was gone in the first

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week. I decided to drink only
once a day. The following six days

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were all days of feverish labor,
light eating, and even lighter drinking.

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But despite all my efforts, only
a quarter of a keg was left at

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the end of two weeks, and
the horror of the situation grew on me,

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my imagination would not be quiet.
I would picture to myself the agonies

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to come when I would have even
less food and water than at present.

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My mind would run on and on
to death by starvation, to the finding

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of my emaciated body by those who
would eventually open up the dugout, even

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to their attempts to reconstruct the story
of my end. And adding to my

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physical discomfort were the swarming vermin infesting
the dugout and my person. A month

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had gone by since I had had
a bath, and I could not now

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spare a drop of water even to
wash my face. The rats had become

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so bold that I had to leave
a candle burning all night in order to

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protect myself in my sleep. Partly
to relieve my mind, I started to

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write this tale of my experiences.
It did act as a relief at first,

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but now as I read it over
the growing terror of this awful place

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grips me. I would cease writing, but some impulse urges me to write.

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Each day, three weeks have passed
since I was buried in this living

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tomb. Today I drank the last
drop of water in the keg There is

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a pool of stagnant water on the
dugout floor, dirty, slimy and alive

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with vermin always stay there, fed
by drippings from the roof. As yet

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I cannot bring myself to touch it. Today I divided up my food supply

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for another week. God knows the
portions were already small enough, but there

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have been so many cave ins recently
that I can never finish clearing the entrance

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in another week. Sometimes I feel
that I shall never clear it, but

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I must. I can never bear
to die here. I must will myself

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to escape, and I shall escape. Did not the captain often say that

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the will to win is half the
victory. I shall rest no more.

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Every waking hour must be spent in
removing the treacherous dirt. Even my writing

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must cease. Oh God, I'm
afraid of afraid. I must write to

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relieve my mind. Last night I
went to sleep at nine by my watch.

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At twelve, I woke to find
myself in the dark, frantically digging

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with my bare hands at the dark
sides of the dugout. After some trouble,

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I found a candle and lit it. The whole dugout was upset.

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My food supplies were lying in the
mud. The box of candles had been

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spilled. My fingernails were broken and
bloody from clawing at the ground. The

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realization dawned upon me that I had
been out of my head, and then

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came the fear, dark, raging, fear, fear of insanity. I

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have been drinking the stagnant water from
the floor for days. I do not

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know how many. I have only
one meal left, but I must save

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it. I had a meal to
day. For three days I have been

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without food, but to day I
caught one of the rats that infest the

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place. It was a big one
too, gave me a bad bite,

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but I killed him. I feel
lots better to day. HAVE had some

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bad dreams lately, but they don't
bother me now. That rat was tough,

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though. Think I'll finish this digging
and go back to my regiment in

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a day or two. Heaven have
mercy. I must be out of my

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head half the time. Now.
I have absolutely no recollection of having written

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that last entry, and I feel
feverish and weak. If I had my

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strength, I think I could finish
clearing the entrance in a day or two,

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But I can only work a short
time at a stretch. I am

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beginning to give up hope. Wild
spells come on me oftener. Now I

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awake, tired from the exertions which
I cannot remember. Bones of rats,

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picked clean are scattered about, yet
I do not remember eating them. In

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my lucid moments. I don't seem
to be able to catch them, for

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they are too wary and I am
too weak. I get some relief by

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chewing the candles, but I dare
not eat them all. I am afraid

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of the dark. I am afraid
of the rats, But worst of all

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is the hideous fear of myself.
My mind is breaking down. I must

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escape soon or I will be little
better than a wild animal. Oh God,

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send help. I'm going mad,
terror, desperation, despair. Is

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this the end? For a long
long time I have been resting. I

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have had a brilliant idea rest brings
back strength. The longer a person rests,

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the stronger they should get. I
have been resting a long time now

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weeks or months, I don't know
which, so I must be very strong.

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I feel strong. My fever has
left me, so listen. There

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is only a little dirt left in
the entranceway. I am going out and

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crawl through it, just like a
mole, right out into the sunlight.

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I feel much stronger than a mole. So this is the end of my

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little tail. A sad tale,
but one with a happy ending sunlight,

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a very happy ending. And that
was the end of the manuscript. There

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only remains to tell Fromwiller's tale.
At first I didn't believe it, but

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now I do. I shall put
it down though, just as Fromwiller told

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it to me, and you can
take it or leave it as you choose.

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Soon after we were billeted at Watau, said Fromwiller, I decided to

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go out and see Mount Kemel.
I had heard that things were rather gruesome

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out there, but I was really
not prepared for the conditions that I found.

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I had seen unburied dead at Rulus
and in the Argonne, but it

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had been almost two months since the
fighting on Mount Kemel, and there were

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still many unburied dead. But there
was another thing that I had never seen,

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and that was the buried living.
As I came to the highest point

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on the mount, I was attracted
by a movement of loose dirt on the

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edge of a huge shell hole.
The dirt seemed to be falling into a

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common center, as if the dirt
below was being removed. As I watched,

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suddenly I was horrified to see a
long, skinny human arm emerged from

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the ground. It disappeared, drawing
back some of the earth with it.

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There was a movement of dirt over
a larger area, and the arm reappeared,

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together with a man's head and shoulders. He pulled himself up out of

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the very ground, as it seemed, shook the dirt from his body like

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a huge, gaunt dog, and
stood erect. I never want to see

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such another creature. Hardly a strip
of clothing was visible, and what little

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00:23:55,480 --> 00:24:00,480
there was was so torn and dirty
that it was impossible to tell what kind

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it had been. The skin was
drawn tightly over the bones, and there

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was a vacant stare in the protruding
eyes. It looked like a corpse that

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had lain in a grave a long
time. This apparition looked directly at me,

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and yet did not appear to see
me. He looked as if the

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light bothered him. I spoke,
and a look of fear came over his

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face. He seemed filled with terror. I stepped toward him, shaking a

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loose piece of barbed wire which had
caught in my patise. Quick as a

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flash, he turned and started to
run from me. For a second,

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I was too astonished to move.
Then I started to follow him in a

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straight line. He ran, looking
neither right nor left. Directly ahead of

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him was a deep and wide trench. He was running straight toward it.

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Suddenly it dawned on me that he
did not see it. I called out,

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but it seemed to terrify him all
the more, and with one last

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lunge, he stepped into the trench
and fell. I heard his body strike

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the other side of the trench and
fell with a splat into the water at

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the bottom. I followed and looked
down into the trench. There he lay

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with his head bent back in such
a position that I was sure his neck

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was broken. He was half in
and half out of the water, and

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as I looked at him, I
could scarcely believe what I had seen.

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Surely he looked as if he had
been dead as long as some of the

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other corpses scattered over the hillside.
I turned and left him as he was

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buried while living. I left him
unburied when dead. The End of the

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Grave by Oliver R. Emerson