[This is another translation attempt by me, of another poem by Erich Kästner about WWI]

We were just eating our supper bread when the principal entered the hall and said, class brother Kern was dead; he was the first to fall. We sat till nightfall in the park sat, thinking and seeking; Kurt Kern, fallen at Langemarck, was sitting among us, speaking. Then Daudet and Virgil again were read and at Easter we moved up a class. Then we were told that Heimbold was dead and Rochlitz injured by gas. Rektor Jobst was a master of Christian lore [Rektor=rector/principial/headmaster] for God and the fatherland and whenever someone left for the war he would first shake his hand. He got a visit from Kern's mom bend by grief on his behalf, and sobbing bitterly into her palm in front of the teaching staff. Rochlitz died in a 4-bed ward, we buried him at St. James. To our class room they added a board with a growing list of names. We still sat often on the lawn No one making any joke. Meanwhile, killed was little Braun and gas made Koßmann choke. The Rektor praised God for every advance, teachers taught us the Latin of yore, we all were scared to be sent to France and then we were drafted for war. We were scared. And hoped somehow that somebody would call "Hold!" We were just eighteen, 'as of now', and that's not very old. We thought of Rochlitz, Braun and Kern. The Rektor hoped we'd be fine and stayed, with God and the other Herrn, [Herrn=Herren, roughly: gentlemen] composed and safe behind.