Ernst Junger is a prominent contemporary German writer, whose literary and political fate is a classic symbol of everything avantgarde, lively, and nonconformist in European culture of the twentieth century. A participant and witness to two world wars, one of the chief theoreticians of German Conservative Revolution in 1920s-1930s, inspirer of national socialism, who quickly turned into a "dissident from the right" after Hitler came to power, survived official disfavor during Nazi totalitarian rule, only to be ostracized by the victors during the "de-nazification" campaigne, whose talent and profundity of thought allowed him to overcome the bias of "democrats." Today, Junger is by right considered to be the emblem of the twentieth century, a mouthpiece not only of the "lost generation," but of the "lost century," full of passionate and dramatic struggle of the last sacral splashes of national life against the suffocating profanity of contemporary technocratic universality.

Junger is the author of many novels, essays, articles, and short stories. He is diverse, versatile, complex, at times contradictory and paradoxical. But the main subject of his works always remains the same - the Laborer, central, almost metaphysical character, whose overt and latent presence is felt in all of his pieces. It is no coincidence that the best known and conceptual of his books, which he was editing and rewriting all through his life, is called "The Laborer."

The Laborer, "Der Arbeiter," is the central type of all those political, artistic, intellectual, and philosophical trends, which, notwithstanding their diversity, are brought together in the concept of "Conservative Revolution." The Laborer is the main hero of the Revolution, its subject, its existential and aesthetic pivot. We are talking about a special type of modern man, which in a most critical experience of profane reality, being at the very heart of technocratic soulless mechanism, in the iron bowels of totalitarian war or hellish industrial labor, in the center of nihilism of the twentieth century, finds in himself a mysterious fulcrum, which takes him to the other side of "nothingness," to the elements of spontaneously awakened inner sacrality. Through intoxication with the modern world, Junger's Laborer perceives the radiant immovability of the Pole, crystal cold of objectivity, in which Tradition and Spirit appear not as something old, ancient, but as Eternal, as eternal return to the timeless Origin. The Laborer is not a conservative or a progressive. He is not a defender of the old and not an apologist for the new. He is the Third Hero, Third Imperial Hero (according to Niekiesch), the new Titan, in whom, through the utmost concentration of modernism in its most venomous and traumatic forms, through industrial and frontal chaos, opens up a special transcendental aspect, which mobilizes him for a metaphysical, heroic act. The Laborers are people of the trenches, factories, "nomads of asphalt," deprived of inheritance in technocratic civilization, taking the challenge of split reality and amassing in their souls special energies of a great rebellion, as brutal and objective as the agressive nature of industrial- bourgeois environment. Ernst Junger is the creator ofpolitico-ideological concept of "total mobilization," which became the theoretical and philosophical base for many conservative revolutionary movements. "Total mobilization" is the necessity for a general awakening of the nation for the purpose of building a new civilization, in which Heros and Titans, bearers of the flame of National Revolution born willfully from the abyss of social alienation, will be at the center.

But, according to Junger, "total mobilization" of masses, nations, peoples is based on a special, unique existential experience, without which the Revolution will either turn into a materialist degenerate form, or will be reanimated by inertial pharisaic conservatives. That is why the existential aspect is given priority in Junger's works, which show an entire gallery of types of the"third hero" (novels "The Steel Storm," "A Heart in Search for Adventures," "On Marble Cliffs," "Escape to the Forest," "Heliopolis," etc.), who is following the way of inner Revolution, exploring the most extreme and risky forms - war, mysticism, drugs, erotism, borderland psychic states. Nietzsche's formula "that which does not kill me, makes me stronger" is Ernst Junger's credo in literature, as well as in life. Just like his characters, he calmly drinks champagne.

In 1995, Ernst Junger turned 100 years old. But time is not imperious in regard to his crystal intellect and dazzling talent. Not long ago, in a letter to the publisher of the Belgian magazine "Antaeus" Christopher Gerard, Junger wrote: "XXI century will be the century of Titans, and XXII - the century of Gods."

These words contain a short resume of the creative work of a great contemporary writer, Laborer, and hero Ernst Junger.

In the evening we sat up a long while drinking coffee that two French women made for us in a neighboring house. It was the strongest drink we could procure. We knew that we were on the verge this time of a battle such as the world had never seen. Soon our excited talk rose to a pitch that would have rejoiced the hearts of any freebooters, or of Frederick's Grenadiers. A few days later there were very few of that party still alive.

On the 23d of August we were transported in lorries to Le Mesnil. Our spirits were excellent, though we knew we were going to be put in where the battle of the Somme was at its worst. Chaff and laughter went from lorry to lorry. We marched from Le Mesnil at dusk to Sailly-Saillisel, and here the battalion dumped packs in a large meadow and paraded in battle order. Artillery fire of a hitherto unimagined intensity rolled and thundered on our front. Thousands of twitching flashes turned the western horizon into a sea of flowers. All the while the wounded came trailing back with white, dejected faces, huddled into the ditches by the gun and ammunition columns that rattled past. A man in a steel helmet reported to me as guide to conduct my platoon to the renowned Combles, where for the time we were to be in reserve. Sitting with him at the side of the road, I asked him, naturally enough, what it was like in the line. In reply I heard a monotonous tale of crouching all day in shell holes with no one on either flank and no trenches communicating with the rear, of unceasing attacks, of dead bodies littering the ground, of maddening thirst, of wounded and dying, and of a lot besides, The face half-framed by the steel rim of the helmet was unmoved; the voice accompanied by the sound of battle droned on, and the impression they made on me was one of unearthly solemnity. One could see that the man had been through horror to the limit of despair and there had learned to despise it. Nothing was left but supreme and superhuman indifference. "Where you fall, there you lie. No one can help you. No one knows whether he will come back alive. They attack every day, but they can't get through. Everybody knows it is life and death." One can fight such with fellows. We marched on along a broad paved road that showed up in the moonlight as a white band on the dark fields. In front of us the artillery fire rose to a higher and higher pitch. Lasciate ogni speranza Soon we had the first shells on one side of the road and the other. Talk died down and at last ceased. Everyone listened-with that peculiar intentness that concentrates all thought and sensation in the ear-for the long-drawn howl of the approaching shell. Our nerves had a particularly severe test passing Fr6gicourt, a little hamlet near Combles cemetery, under continuous fire. As far as we could see in the darkness, Combles was utterly shot to bits. The damage seemed to be recent, judging from the amount of timber among the ruins and the contents of the houses slung over the road. We climbed over numerous heaps of d6bris-rather hurriedly, owing to a few shrapnel shells-and reached our quarters. They were in a large, shot-riddled house. Here I established myself with three sections. The other two occupied the cellar of a ruin opposite. At 4 A. M. we were aroused from our rest on the fragments of bed we had collected, in order to receive steel helmets. It was also the occasion of discovering a sack of coffee beans in a comer of the cellar; whereupon there followed a great brewing of coffee. After breakfast I went out to have a look round. Heavy artillery had turned a peaceful little billeting town into a scene of desolation in the course of a day or two. Whole houses had been flattened by single direct hits or blown UP so that the interiors of the rooms hung over the chaos like the scenes on a stage. A sickly scent of dead bodies rose from many of the ruins, for many civilians had been caught in the bombardment and buried beneath the wreckage of their homes. A little girl lay dead in a pool of blood on the threshold of one of the doorways. In the course of the afternoon the firing increased to such a degree that single explosions were no longer audible. There was nothing but one terrific tornado of noise. From seven onward the square and the houses round were shelled at intervals of half a minute with fifteen- centimeter shells. There were many duds among them, which all the same made the houses rock. We sat all this while in our cellar, round a table, on armchairs covered in silk, with our heads propped on our hands, and counted the seconds between the explosions. Our jests became less frequent, till at last the foolhardiest of us fell silent, and at eight o'clock two direct hits brought down the next house. From nine to ten the shelling was frantic. The earth rocked and the sky boiled like a gigantic cauldron. Hundreds of heavy batteries were concentrated on and round Combles. Innumerable shells came howling and hurtling over us. Thick smoke, ominously fit up by Very lights, veiled everything. Head and ears ached violently, and we could only make ourselves understood by shouting a word at a time. The power of logical thought and the force of gravity seemed alike to be suspended. One had the sense of something as unescapable and as unconditionally fated as a catastrophe of nature. An N. C. 0. of No. 3 platoon went mad. At ten this carnival of hell gradually calmed down and passed into a steady drum fire. It was still certainly impossible to distinguish one shell from another.

At last we reached the front line, It was held by men cowering close in the shell holes, and their dead voices trembled with joy when they heard that we were the relief. A Bavarian sergeant major briefly handed over the sector and the Very-light pistol. My platoon front formed the right wing of the position held by the regiment. It consisted of a shallow sunken road which had been pounded by shells. It was a few hundred meters left of Guillemont and a rather shorter distance right of Boisde-Tr6nes. We were parted from the troops on our right, the Seventy-sixth Regiment of Infantry, by a space about five hundred meters wide. This space was shelled so violently that no troops could maintain themselves there. The Bavarian sergeant major had vanished of a sudden, and I stood alone, the Very-light pistol in my hand, in the midst of an uncanny sea of shell holes over which lay a white mist whose swaths gave it an even more oppressive and mysterious appearance. A persistent, unpleasant smell came from behind. I was left in no doubt that it came from a gigantic corpse far gone in decay. * * * When day dawned we were astonished to see, by degrees, what a sight surrounded us. The sunken road now appeared as nothing but a series of enormous shell holes filled with pieces of uniform, weapons, and dead bodies. The ground all round, as far as the eye could see, was plowed by shells. You could search in vain for one wretched blade of grass. This churned-up battlefield was ghastly. Among the living lay the dead.

As we dug ourselves in we found them in layers stacked one upon the top of another. One company after another had been shoved into the drum fire and steadily annihilated. The corpses were covered with the masses of soil turned up by the shells, and the next company advanced in the place of the fallen. The sunken road and the ground behind were full of German dead; the ground in front, of English. Arms, legs, and heads stuck out stark above the lips of the craters. In front of our miserable defenses there were torn-off limbs and corpses over many of which cloaks and ground sheets had been thrown to hide the fixed stare of their distorted features. In spite of the heat no one thought for a moment of covering them with soil. The village of Guillemont was distinguished from the landscape around it only because the shell holes there were of a whiter color by reason of the houses which had been ground to powder. Guillemont railway station lay in front of us. It was smashed to bits like a child's plaything. Delville Wood, reduced to matchwood, was farther behind.

It was the days at Guillemont that first made me aware of the overwhelming effects on the war of material. We had to adapt ourselves to an entirely new phase of war. The communications between the troops and the staff, between the artillery and the liaison officers, were utterly crippled by the terrific fire. Dispatch carriers failed to get through the hail of metal, and telephone wires were no sooner laid than they were shot into pieces. Even light-signaling was put out of action by the clouds of smoke and dust that hung over the field of battle. There was a zone of a kilometer behind the front line where explosives held absolute sway. Even the regimental staff only knew exactly where we had been and how the line ran when we came back after three days and told them. Under such circumstances accuracy of artillery fire was out of the question. We were also entirely in the dark about the English line, though often, without our knowing it, it was only a few meters from us. Sometimes a Tommy, feeling his way from one shell hole to another like an ant along a track in the sand, landed in one that we occupied, and vice versa, for our front line consisted merely of isolated and unconnected bits that were easily mistaken. Once seen, the landscape is an unforgettable one. In this neighborhood of villages, meadows, woods, and fields there was literally not a bush or a tiniest blade of grass to be seen. Every hand's breadth of ground had been churned up again and again; trees had been uprooted, smashed, and ground to touchwood, the houses blown to bits and turned to dust; hills had been leveled and the arable land made a desert. And yet the strangest thing of all was not the horror of the landscape in itself, but the fact that these scenes, such as the world had never known before, were fashioned by men who intended them to be a decisive end to the war. Thus all the frightfulness that the mind of man could devise was brought into the field; and there, where lately had been the idyllic picture of rural peace, there was as faithful a picture of the soul of scientific war. In earlier wars, certainly, towns and villages had been burned, but what was that compared with this sea of craters dug out by machines? For even in this fantastic desert there was the sameness of the machine-made article. A shell hole strewn with bully tins, broken weapons, fragments of uniform, and dud shells, with one or two dead bodies on its edge-this was the never-changing scene that surrounded each one of all these hundreds of thousands of men. And it seemed that man, on this landscape he had himself created, became different, more mysterious and hardy and callous than in any previous battle. The spirit and the tempo of the fighting altered, and after the battle of the Somme the war had its own peculiar impress that distinguished it from all other wars. After this battle the German soldier wore the steel helmet, and in his features there were chiseled the lines of an energy stretched to the utmost pitch, lines that future generations will perhaps find as fascinating and imposing as those of many heads of classical or Renaissance times. For I cannot too often repeat, a battle was no longer an episode that spent itself in blood and fire; it was a condition of things that dug itself in remorselessly week after week and even month after month. What was a man's life in this wilderness whose vapor was laden with, the stench of thousands upon thousands of decaying bodies? Death lay in ambush for each one in every shell hole, merciless, and making one merciless in turn. Chivalry here took a final farewell. It had to yield to the heightened intensity of war, just as all fine and personal feeling has to yield when machinery gets the upper hand. The Europe of to-day appeared here for the first time on the field of battle....