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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Backwash of War
+       The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield as Witnessed by an
+       American Hospital Nurse
+
+Author: Ellen N. La Motte
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2008 [EBook #26884]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BACKWASH OF WAR ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Meredith Bach, René Anderson Benitz and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+(This file was produced from images generously made
+available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation and spelling have been
+retained as in the original. Minor printer errors have been amended
+without note.
+
+
+
+
+                    _By Ellen N. La Motte_
+
+
+                    The Tuberculosis Nurse
+
+                      The Backwash of War
+
+
+
+
+                             The
+                        Backwash of War
+
+            The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield
+                  as Witnessed by an American
+                        Hospital Nurse
+
+                              By
+                       Ellen N. La Motte
+
+
+                      G. P. Putnam's Sons
+                      New York and London
+                    The Knickerbocker Press
+                             1916
+
+
+
+
+                        Copyright, 1916
+                              BY
+                       ELLEN N. LA MOTTE
+
+                The Knickerbocker Press, New York
+
+
+
+
+                              To
+                       MARY BORDEN-TURNER
+
+                       "The Little Boss"
+
+                 TO WHOM I OWE MY EXPERIENCE IN
+                     THE ZONE OF THE ARMIES
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+This war has been described as "Months of boredom, punctuated by moments
+of intense fright." The writer of these sketches has experienced many
+"months of boredom," in a French military field hospital, situated ten
+kilometres behind the lines, in Belgium. During these months, the
+lines have not moved, either forward or backward, but have remained
+dead-locked, in one position. Undoubtedly, up and down the long-reaching
+kilometres of "Front" there has been action, and "moments of intense
+fright" have produced glorious deeds of valour, courage, devotion, and
+nobility. But when there is little or no action, there is a stagnant
+place, and in a stagnant place there is much ugliness. Much ugliness is
+churned up in the wake of mighty, moving forces. We are witnessing a
+phase in the evolution of humanity, a phase called War--and the slow,
+onward progress stirs up the slime in the shallows, and this is the
+Backwash of War. It is very ugly. There are many little lives foaming up
+in the backwash. They are loosened by the sweeping current, and float to
+the surface, detached from their environment, and one glimpses them,
+weak, hideous, repellent. After the war, they will consolidate again
+into the condition called Peace.
+
+After this war, there will be many other wars, and in the intervals
+there will be peace. So it will alternate for many generations. By
+examining the things cast up in the backwash, we can gauge the progress
+of humanity. When clean little lives, when clean little souls boil up in
+the backwash, they will consolidate, after the final war, into a peace
+that shall endure. But not till then.
+
+                                                  E. N. L. M.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+                                       PAGE
+
+HEROES                                   3
+
+LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE                17
+
+THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE                   35
+
+ALONE                                   49
+
+A BELGIAN CIVILIAN                      63
+
+THE INTERVAL                            77
+
+WOMEN AND WIVES                         95
+
+POUR LA PATRIE                         115
+
+LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA                       129
+
+A SURGICAL TRIUMPH                     143
+
+AT THE TELEPHONE                       159
+
+A CITATION                             167
+
+AN INCIDENT                            181
+
+
+
+
+HEROES
+
+
+When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the
+roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left
+eye, and then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they bundled him into
+an ambulance and carried him, cursing and screaming, to the nearest
+field hospital. The journey was made in double-quick time, over rough
+Belgian roads. To save his life, he must reach the hospital without
+delay, and if he was bounced to death jolting along at breakneck speed,
+it did not matter. That was understood. He was a deserter, and
+discipline must be maintained. Since he had failed in the job, his life
+must be saved, he must be nursed back to health, until he was well
+enough to be stood up against a wall and shot. This is War. Things like
+this also happen in peace time, but not so obviously.
+
+At the hospital, he behaved abominably. The ambulance men declared that
+he had tried to throw himself out of the back of the ambulance, that he
+had yelled and hurled himself about, and spat blood all over the floor
+and blankets--in short, he was very disagreeable. Upon the operating
+table, he was no more reasonable. He shouted and screamed and threw
+himself from side to side, and it took a dozen leather straps and four
+or five orderlies to hold him in position, so that the surgeon could
+examine him. During this commotion, his left eye rolled about loosely
+upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he shot great clots of
+stagnant blood, caring not where they fell. One fell upon the immaculate
+white uniform of the Directrice, and stained her, from breast to shoes.
+It was disgusting. They told him it was _La Directrice_, and that he
+must be careful. For an instant he stopped his raving, and regarded her
+fixedly with his remaining eye, then took aim afresh, and again covered
+her with his coward blood. Truly it was disgusting.
+
+To the _Médecin Major_ it was incomprehensible, and he said so. To
+attempt to kill oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy to die with
+honour upon the battlefield, was something he could not understand. So
+the _Médecin Major_ stood patiently aside, his arms crossed, his supple
+fingers pulling the long black hairs on his bare arms, waiting. He had
+long to wait, for it was difficult to get the man under the anæsthetic.
+Many cans of ether were used, which went to prove that the patient was a
+drinking man. Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before or
+since the war could not be ascertained; the war had lasted a year now,
+and in that time many habits may be formed. As the _Médecin Major_
+stood there, patiently fingering the hairs on his hairy arms, he
+calculated the amount of ether that was expended--five cans of ether, at
+so many francs a can--however, the ether was a donation from America, so
+it did not matter. Even so, it was wasteful.
+
+At last they said he was ready. He was quiet. During his struggles, they
+had broken out two big teeth with the mouth gag, and that added a little
+more blood to the blood already choking him. Then the _Médecin Major_
+did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the
+bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
+eye. After which the man was sent over to the ward, while the surgeon
+returned hungrily to his dinner, long overdue.
+
+In the ward, the man was a bad patient. He insisted upon tearing off his
+bandages, although they told him that this meant bleeding to death. His
+mind seemed fixed on death. He seemed to want to die, and was thoroughly
+unreasonable, although quite conscious. All of which meant that he
+required constant watching and was a perfect nuisance. He was so
+different from the other patients, who wanted to live. It was a joy to
+nurse them. This was the _Salle_ of the _Grands Blessés_, those most
+seriously wounded. By expert surgery, by expert nursing, some of these
+were to be returned to their homes again, _réformés_, mutilated for
+life, a burden to themselves and to society; others were to be nursed
+back to health, to a point at which they could again shoulder eighty
+pounds of marching kit, and be torn to pieces again on the firing line.
+It was a pleasure to nurse such as these. It called forth all one's
+skill, all one's humanity. But to nurse back to health a man who was to
+be court-martialled and shot, truly that seemed a dead-end occupation.
+
+They dressed his wounds every day. Very many yards of gauze were
+required, with gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much ether, very
+much iodoform, very many bandages--it was an expensive business,
+considering. All this waste for a man who was to be shot, as soon as he
+was well enough. How much better to expend this upon the hopeless
+cripples, or those who were to face death again in the trenches.
+
+The night nurse was given to reflection. One night, about midnight, she
+took her candle and went down the ward, reflecting. Ten beds on the
+right hand side, ten beds on the left hand side, all full. How pitiful
+they were, these little soldiers, asleep. How irritating they were,
+these little soldiers, awake. Yet how sternly they contrasted with the
+man who had attempted suicide. Yet did they contrast, after all? Were
+they finer, nobler, than he? The night nurse, given to reflection,
+continued her rounds.
+
+In bed number two, on the right, lay Alexandre, asleep. He had received
+the _Médaille Militaire_ for bravery. He was better now, and that day
+had asked the _Médecin Major_ for permission to smoke. The _Médecin
+Major_ had refused, saying that it would disturb the other patients. Yet
+after the doctor had gone, Alexandre had produced a cigarette and
+lighted it, defying them all from behind his _Médaille Militaire_. The
+patient in the next bed had become violently nauseated in consequence,
+yet Alexandre had smoked on, secure in his _Médaille Militaire_. How
+much honour lay in that?
+
+Here lay Félix, asleep. Poor, querulous, feeble-minded Félix, with a
+foul fistula, which filled the whole ward with its odour. In one
+sleeping hand lay his little round mirror, in the other, he clutched his
+comb. With daylight, he would trim and comb his moustache, his poor,
+little drooping moustache, and twirl the ends of it.
+
+Beyond lay Alphonse, drugged with morphia, after an intolerable day.
+That morning he had received a package from home, a dozen pears. He had
+eaten them all, one after the other, though his companions in the beds
+adjacent looked on with hungry, longing eyes. He offered not one, to
+either side of him. After his gorge, he had become violently ill, and
+demanded the basin in which to unload his surcharged stomach.
+
+Here lay Hippolyte, who for eight months had jerked on the bar of a
+captive balloon, until appendicitis had sent him into hospital. He was
+not ill, and his dirty jokes filled the ward, provoking laughter, even
+from dying Marius. How filthy had been his jokes--how they had been
+matched and beaten by the jokes of others. How filthy they all were,
+when they talked with each other, shouting down the length of the ward.
+
+Wherein lay the difference? Was it not all a dead-end occupation,
+nursing back to health men to be patched up and returned to the
+trenches, or a man to be patched up, court-martialled and shot? The
+difference lay in the Ideal.
+
+One had no ideals. The others had ideals, and fought for them. Yet had
+they? Poor selfish Alexandre, poor vain Félix, poor gluttonous Alphonse,
+poor filthy Hippolyte--was it possible that each cherished ideals,
+hidden beneath? Courageous dreams of freedom and patriotism? Yet if so,
+how could such beliefs fail to influence their daily lives? Could one
+cherish standards so noble, yet be himself so ignoble, so petty, so
+commonplace?
+
+At this point her candle burned out, so the night nurse took another
+one, and passed from bed to bed. It was very incomprehensible. Poor,
+whining Félix, poor whining Alphonse, poor whining Hippolyte, poor
+whining Alexandre--all fighting for _La Patrie_. And against them the
+man who had tried to desert _La Patrie_.
+
+So the night nurse continued her rounds, up and down the ward,
+reflecting. And suddenly she saw that these ideals were imposed from
+without--that they were compulsory. That left to themselves, Félix, and
+Hippolyte, and Alexandre, and Alphonse would have had no ideals.
+Somewhere, higher up, a handful of men had been able to impose upon
+Alphonse, and Hippolyte, and Félix, and Alexandre, and thousands like
+them, a state of mind which was not in them, of themselves. Base metal,
+gilded. And they were all harnessed to a great car, a Juggernaut,
+ponderous and crushing, upon which was enthroned Mammon, or the Goddess
+of Liberty, or Reason, as you like. Nothing further was demanded of them
+than their collective physical strength--just to tug the car forward, to
+cut a wide swath, to leave behind a broad path along which could
+follow, at some later date, the hordes of Progress and Civilization.
+Individual nobility was superfluous. All the Idealists demanded was
+physical endurance from the mass.
+
+Dawn filtered in through the little square windows of the ward. Two of
+the patients rolled on their sides, that they might talk to one another.
+In the silence of early morning their voices rang clear.
+
+"Dost thou know, _mon ami_, that when we captured that German battery a
+few days ago, we found the gunners chained to their guns?"
+
+    PARIS,
+18 December, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE
+
+
+They brought him to the _Poste de Secours_, just behind the lines, and
+laid the stretcher down gently, after which the bearers stretched and
+restretched their stiffened arms, numb with his weight. For he was a big
+man of forty, not one of the light striplings of the young classes of
+this year or last. The wounded man opened his eyes, flashing black eyes,
+that roved about restlessly for a moment, and then rested vindictively
+first on one, then on the other of the two _brancardiers_.
+
+"_Sales embusqués!_" (Dirty cowards) he cried angrily. "How long is it
+since I have been wounded? Ten hours! For ten hours have I laid there,
+waiting for you! And then you come to fetch me, only when it is safe!
+Safe for you! Safe to risk your precious, filthy skins! Safe to come
+where I have stood for months! Safe to come where for ten hours I have
+laid, my belly opened by a German shell! Safe! Safe! How brave you are
+when night has fallen, when it is dark, when it is safe to come for me,
+ten hours late!"
+
+He closed his eyes, jerked up his knees, and clasped both dirty hands
+over his abdomen. From waist to knees the old blue trousers were soaked
+with blood, black blood, stiff and wet. The _brancardiers_ looked at
+each other and shook their heads. One shrugged a shoulder. Again the
+flashing eyes of the man on the stretcher opened.
+
+"_Sales embusqués!_" he shouted again. "How long have you been engaged
+in this work of mercy? For twelve months, since the beginning of the
+war! And for twelve months, since the beginning of the war, I have stood
+in the first line trenches! Think of it--twelve months! And for twelve
+months you have come for us--when it was safe! How much younger are you
+than I! Ten years, both of you--ten years, fifteen years, or even more!
+Ah, _Nom de Dieu_, to have influence! Influence!"
+
+The flaming eyes closed again, and the bearers shuffled off, lighting
+cheap cigarettes.
+
+Then the surgeon came, impatiently. Ah, a _grand blessé_, to be hastened
+to the rear at once. The surgeon tried to unbutton the soaking trousers,
+but the man gave a scream of pain.
+
+"For the sake of God, cut them, _Monsieur le Major_! Cut them! Do not
+economize. They are worn out in the service of the country! They are
+torn and bloody, they can serve no one after me! Ah, the little
+economies, the little, false economies! Cut them, _Monsieur le Major_!"
+
+An assistant, with heavy, blunt scissors, half cut, half tore the
+trousers from the man in agony. Clouts of black blood rolled from the
+wound, then a stream bright and scarlet, which was stopped by a handful
+of white gauze, retained by tightly wrapped bands. The surgeon raised
+himself from the task.
+
+"_Mon pauvre vieux_," he murmured tenderly. "Once more?" and into the
+supine leg he shot a stream of morphia.
+
+Two ambulance men came in, Americans in khaki, ruddy, well fed,
+careless. They lifted the stretcher quickly, skilfully. Marius opened
+his angry eyes and fixed them furiously.
+
+"_Sales étrangers!_" he screamed. "What are _you_ here for? To see me,
+with my bowels running on the ground? Did you come for me ten hours ago,
+when I needed you? My head in mud, my blood warm under me? Ah, not you!
+There was danger then--you only come for me when it is safe!"
+
+They shoved him into the ambulance, buckling down the brown canvas
+curtains by the light of a lantern. One cranked the motor, then both
+clambered to the seat in front, laughing. They drove swiftly but
+carefully through the darkness, carrying no lights. Inside, the man
+continued his imprecations, but they could not hear him.
+
+"Strangers! Sightseers!" he sobbed in misery. "Driving a motor, when it
+is I who should drive the motor! Have I not conducted a Paris taxi for
+these past ten years? Do I not know how to drive, to manage an engine?
+What are they here for--France? No, only themselves! To write a book--to
+say what they have done--when it was safe! If it was France, there is
+the Foreign Legion--where they would have been welcome--to stand in the
+trenches as I have done! But do they enlist? Ah no! It is not safe! They
+take my place with the motor, and come to get me--when it is too late."
+
+Then the morphia relieving him, he slept.
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+In a field hospital, some ten kilometres behind the lines, Marius lay
+dying. For three days he had been dying and it was disturbing to the
+other patients. The stench of his wounds filled the air, his curses
+filled the ward. For Marius knew that he was dying and that he had
+nothing to fear. He could express himself as he chose. There would be no
+earthly court-martial for him--he was answerable to a higher court. So
+Marius gave forth freely to the ward his philosophy of life, his hard,
+bare, ugly life, as he had lived it, and his comments on _La Patrie_ as
+he understood it. For three days, night and day, he screamed in his
+delirium, and no one paid much attention, thinking it was delirium. The
+other patients were sometimes diverted and amused, sometimes exceedingly
+annoyed, according to whether or not they were sleepy or suffering. And
+all the while the wound in the abdomen gave forth a terrible stench,
+filling the ward, for he had gas gangrene, the odour of which is
+abominable.
+
+Marius had been taken to the _Salle_ of the abdominal wounds, and on one
+side of him lay a man with a fæcal fistula, which smelled atrociously.
+The man with the fistula, however, had got used to himself, so he
+complained mightily of Marius. On the other side lay a man who had been
+shot through the bladder, and the smell of urine was heavy in the air
+round about. Yet this man had also got used to himself, and he too
+complained of Marius, and the awful smell of Marius. For Marius had gas
+gangrene, and gangrene is death, and it was the smell of death that the
+others complained of.
+
+Two beds farther down, lay a boy of twenty, who had been shot through
+the liver. Also his hand had been amputated, and for this reason he was
+to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He had performed no special act of
+bravery, but all _mutilés_ are given the _Croix de Guerre_, for they
+will recover and go back to Paris, and in walking about the streets of
+Paris, with one leg gone, or an arm gone, it is good for the _morale_ of
+the country that they should have a _Croix de Guerre_ pinned on their
+breasts. So one night at about eight o'clock, the General arrived to
+confer the _Croix de Guerre_ on the man two beds from Marius. The
+General was a beautiful man, something like the Russian Grand Duke. He
+was tall and thin, with beautiful slim legs encased in shining tall
+boots. As he entered the ward, emerging from the rain and darkness
+without, he was very imposing. A few rain drops sparkled upon the golden
+oak leaves of his cap, for although he had driven up in a limousine, he
+was not able to come quite up to the ward, but had been obliged to
+traverse some fifty yards of darkness, in the rain. He was encircled in
+a sweeping black cloak, which he cast off upon an empty bed, and then,
+surrounded by his glittering staff, he conferred the medal upon the man
+two beds below Marius. The little ceremony was touching in its dignity
+and simplicity. Marius, in his delirium, watched the proceedings
+intently.
+
+It was all over in five minutes. Then the General was gone, his staff
+was gone, and the ward was left to its own reflections.
+
+Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a little _joyeux_. That is to say,
+a soldier of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, which is the criminal regiment
+of France, in which regiment are placed those men who would otherwise
+serve sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this regiment in peace
+time, and in time of war, they fight in the trenches as do the others,
+but with small chance of being decorated. Social rehabilitation is their
+sole reward, as a rule. So Marius waxed forth, taunting the little
+_joyeux_, whose feet lay opposite his feet, a yard apart.
+
+"_Tiens!_ My little friend!" he shouted so that all might hear. "Thou
+canst never receive the _Croix de Guerre_, as François has received it,
+because thou art of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_! And why art thou there,
+my friend? Because, one night at a café, thou didst drink more wine than
+was good for thee--so much more than was good for thee, that when an old
+_boulevardier_, with much money in his pocket, proposed to take thy girl
+from thee, thou didst knock him down and give him a black eye! Common
+brawler, disturber of the peace! It was all due to the wine, the good
+wine, which made thee value the girl far above her worth! It was the
+wine! The wine! And every time an attempt is made in the Chamber to
+abolish drinking the good wine of France, there is violent opposition.
+Opposition from whom? From the old _boulevardier_ whose money is
+invested in the vineyards--the very man who casts covetous eyes upon thy
+Mimi! So thou goest to jail, then to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, and the
+wine flows, and thy Mimi--where is she? Only never canst thou receive
+the _Croix de Guerre_, my friend--_La Patrie Reconnaissante_ sees to
+that!"
+
+Marius shouted with laughter--he knew himself so near death, and it was
+good to be able to say all that was in his heart. An orderly approached
+him, one of the six young men attached as male nurses to the ward.
+
+"Ha! Thou bidst me be quiet, _sale embusqué_?" he taunted. "I will shout
+louder than the guns! And hast thou ever heard the guns, nearer than
+this safe point behind the lines? Thou art here doing woman's work!
+Caring for me, nursing me! And what knowledge dost thou bring to thy
+task, thou ignorant grocer's clerk? Surely thou hast some powerful
+friend, who got thee mobilized as _infirmier_--a woman's task--instead
+of a simple soldier like me, doing his duty in the trenches!"
+
+Marius raised himself in bed, which the _infirmier_ knew, because the
+doctor had told him, was not a right position for a man who has a wound
+in his stomach, some thirty centimetres in length. Marius, however, was
+strong in his delirium, so the _infirmier_ called another to help him
+throw the patient upon his back. Soon three were called, to hold the
+struggling man down.
+
+Marius resigned himself. "Summon all six of you!" he shouted. "All six
+of you! And what do you know about illness such as mine? You, a grocer's
+clerk! You, barber! You, _cultivateur_! You, driver of the boat train
+from Paris to Cherbourg! You, agent of the Gas Society of Paris! You,
+driver of a Paris taxi, such as myself! Yet here you all are, in your
+wisdom, your experience, to nurse me! Mobilized as nurses because you
+are friend of a friend of a deputy! Whilst I, who know no deputy, am
+mobilized in the first line trenches! _Sales embusqués! Sales
+embusqués! La Patrie Reconnaissante!_"
+
+He laid upon his back a little while, quiet. He was very delirious, and
+the end could not be far off. His black eyebrows were contracted into a
+frown, the eyelids closed and quivering. The grey nostrils were pinched
+and dilated, the grey lips snarling above yellow, crusted teeth. The
+restless lips twitched constantly, mumbling fresh treason, inaudibly.
+Upon the floor on one side lay a pile of coverlets, tossed angrily from
+the bed, while on each side the bed dangled white, muscular, hairy legs,
+the toes touching the floor. All the while he fumbled to unloose the
+abdominal dressings, picking at the safety-pins with weak, dirty
+fingers. The patients on each side turned their backs to him, to escape
+the smell, the smell of death.
+
+A woman nurse came down the ward. She was the only one, and she tried to
+cover him with the fallen bedding. Marius attempted to clutch her hand,
+to encircle her with his weak, delirious, amorous arms. She dodged
+swiftly, and directed an orderly to cover him with the fallen blankets.
+
+Marius laughed in glee, a fiendish, feeble, shrieking laugh. "Have
+nothing to do with a woman who is diseased!" he shouted. "Never! Never!
+Never!"
+
+So they gave him more morphia, that he might be quiet and less indecent,
+and not disturb the other patients. And all that night he died, and all
+the next day he died, and all the night following he died, for he was a
+very strong man and his vitality was wonderful. And as he died, he
+continued to pour out to them his experience of life, his summing up of
+life, as he had lived it and known it. And the sight of the woman nurse
+evoked one train of thought, and the sight of the men nurses evoked
+another, and the sight of the man who had the _Croix de Guerre_ evoked
+another, and the sight of the _joyeux_ evoked another. And he told the
+ward all about it, incessantly. He was very delirious.
+
+His was a filthy death. He died after three days' cursing and raving.
+Before he died, that end of the ward smelled foully, and his foul words,
+shouted at the top of his delirious voice, echoed foully. Everyone was
+glad when it was over.
+
+The end came suddenly. After very much raving it came, after terrible
+abuse, terrible truths. One morning, very early, the night nurse looked
+out of the window and saw a little procession making its way out of the
+gates of the hospital enclosure, going towards the cemetery of the
+village beyond. First came the priest, carrying a wooden cross that the
+carpenter had just made. He was chanting something in a minor key, while
+the sentry at the gates stood at salute. The cortège passed through,
+numbering a dozen soldiers, four of whom carried the bier on their
+shoulders. The bier was covered with the glorious tricolour of France.
+She glanced instinctively back towards Marius. It would be just like
+that when he died. Then her eyes fell upon a Paris newspaper, lying on
+her table. There was a column headed, "_Nos Héros! Morts aux Champs
+d'Honneur! La Patrie Reconnaissante._" It would be just like that.
+
+Then Marius gave a last, sudden scream.
+
+"_Vive la France!_" he shouted. "_Vive les sales embusqués! Hoch le
+Kaiser!_"
+
+The ward awoke, scandalized.
+
+"_Vive la Patrie Reconnaissante!_" he yelled. "_Hoch le Kaiser!_"
+
+Then he died.
+
+    PARIS,
+19 December, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE
+
+
+The field hospital stood in a field outside the village, surrounded by a
+thick, high hedge of prickly material. Within, the enclosure was filled
+by a dozen little wooden huts, painted green, connected with each other
+by plank walks. What went on outside the hedge, nobody within knew. War,
+presumably. War ten kilometres away, to judge by the map, and by the
+noise of the guns, which on some days roared very loudly, and made the
+wooden huts shake and tremble, although one got used to that, after a
+fashion. The hospital was very close to the war, so close that no one
+knew anything about the war, therefore it was very dull inside the
+enclosure, with no news and no newspapers, and just quarrels and
+monotonous work. As for the hedge, at such points as the prickly thorn
+gave out or gave way, stout stakes and stout boarding took its place,
+thus making it a veritable prison wall to those confined within. There
+was but one recognized entrance, the big double gates with a sentry box
+beside them, at which box or within it, according to the weather, stood
+a sentry, night and day. By day, a drooping French flag over the gates
+showed the ambulances where to enter. By night, a lantern served the
+same purpose. The night sentry was often asleep, the day sentry was
+often absent, and each wrote down in a book, when they thought it
+important, the names of those who came and went into the hospital
+grounds. The field ambulances came and went, the hospital motors came
+and went, now and then the General's car came and went, and the people
+attached to the hospital also came and went, openly, through the gates.
+But the comings and goings through the hedge were different.
+
+Now and then holes were discovered in the hedge. Holes underneath the
+prickly thorn, not more than a foot high, but sufficient to allow a
+crawling body to wriggle through on its stomach. These holes persisted
+for a day or two or three, and then were suddenly staked up, with strong
+stakes and barbed wire. After which, a few days later, perhaps, other
+holes like them would be discovered in the hedge a little further along.
+After each hole was discovered, curious happenings would take place
+amongst the hospital staff.
+
+Certain men, orderlies or stretcher bearers, would be imprisoned. For
+example, the nurse of _Salle I._, the ward of the _grands blessés_,
+would come on duty some morning and discover that one of her orderlies
+was missing. Fouquet, who swept the ward, who carried basins, who gave
+the men their breakfasts, was absent. There was a beastly hitch in the
+ward work, in consequence. The floor was filthy, covered with cakes of
+mud tramped in by the stretcher bearers during the night. The men
+screamed for attention they did not receive. The wrong patients got the
+wrong food at meal times. And then the nurse would look out of one of
+the little square windows of the ward, and see Fouquet marching up and
+down the plank walks between the _baracques_, carrying his eighty pounds
+of marching kit, and smiling happily and defiantly. He was "in prison."
+The night before he had crawled through a hole in the hedge, got blind
+drunk in a neighbouring _estaminet_, and had swaggered boldly through
+the gates in the morning, to be "imprisoned." He wanted to be. He just
+could not stand it any longer. He was sick of it all. Sick of being
+_infirmier_, of sweeping the floor, of carrying vessels, of cutting up
+tough meat for sullen, one-armed men, with the _Croix de Guerre_ pinned
+to their coffee-streaked night shirts. Bah! The _Croix de Guerre_
+pinned to a night shirt, egg-stained, smelling of sweat!
+
+Long, long ago, before any one thought of war--oh, long ago, that is,
+about six years--Fouquet had known a deputy. Also his father had known
+the deputy. And so, when it came time for his military service, he had
+done it as _infirmier_. As nurse, not soldier. He had done stretcher
+drill, with empty stretchers. He had swept wards, empty of patients. He
+had done his two years military service, practising on empty beds, on
+empty stretchers. He had had a snap, because of the deputy. Then came
+the war, and still he had a snap, although now the beds and the wards
+were all full. Still, there was no danger, no front line trenches, for
+he was mobilized as _infirmier_, as nurse in a military hospital. He
+stood six feet tall, which is big for a Frenchman, and he was big in
+proportion, and he was twenty-five years old, and ruddy and strong. Yet
+he was obliged to wait upon a little screaming man, five feet two,
+whose nose had been shot away, exchanged for the _Médaille Militaire_
+upon his breast, who screamed out to him: "Bring me the basin,
+_embusqué_!" And he had brought it. If he had not brought it, the little
+screaming man with no nose and the flat bandage across his face would
+have reported him to the _Médecin Chef_, and in time he might have been
+transferred to the front line trenches. Anything is better than the
+front line trenches. Fouquet knew this, because the wounded men were so
+bitter at his not being there. The old men were very bitter. At the end
+of the summer, they changed the troops in this sector, and the young
+Zouaves were replaced by old men of forty and forty-five. They looked
+very much older than this when they were wounded and brought into the
+hospital, for their hair and beards were often quite white, and besides
+their wounds, they were often sick from exposure to the cold, winter
+rains of Flanders. One of these old men, who were nearly always
+querulous, had a son also serving in the trenches. He was very rude to
+Fouquet, this old man. Old and young, they called him _embusqué_. Which
+meant that they were jealous of him, that they very much envied him for
+escaping the trenches, and considered it very unjust that they knew no
+one with influence who could have protected them in the same way. But
+Fouquet was very sick of it all. Day in and day out, for eighteen
+months, or since the beginning of the war, he had waited upon the
+wounded. He had done as the commonest soldier had ordered him, clodding
+up and down the ward in his heavy wooden _sabots_, knocking them against
+the beds, eliciting curses for his intentional clumsiness. There were
+also many priests in that hospital, likewise serving as _infirmiers_.
+They too, fetched and carried, but they did not seem to resent it. Only
+Fouquet and some others resented it. Fouquet resented the war, and the
+first line trenches, and the field hospital, and the wounded men, and
+everything connected with the war. He was utterly bored with the war.
+The hole in the hedge and the _estaminet_ beyond was all that saved him.
+
+There was a priest with a yellow beard, who also used the hole in the
+hedge. He used it almost every night, when it was open. He slipped out,
+got his drink, and then slipped down to the village to spend the night
+with a girl. Only he was crafty, and slipped back again through the hole
+before daylight, and was always on duty again in the morning. True, he
+was very cross and irritable, and the patients did without things rather
+than ask him for them, and sometimes they suffered a great deal, doing
+without things, on these mornings when he was so cross.
+
+But with Fouquet, it was different. He walked in boldly through the
+gates in the morning, and said that he had been out all night without
+leave, and that he was bored to the point of death. So the _Médecin
+Chef_ punished him. He imprisoned him, and as there was no prison, he
+served his six days' sentence in the open air. He donned his eighty
+pounds of marching kit, and tramped up and down the plank walks, and
+round behind the _baracques_, in the mud, in full sight of all, so that
+all might witness his humiliation. He did not go on duty again in the
+ward, and in consequence, the ward suffered through lack of his
+grudging, uncouth administration.
+
+Sometimes he met the _Directrice_ as he trudged up and down. He was
+always afraid to meet her, because once she had gone to the _Médecin
+Chef_ and had him pardoned. Her gentle heart had been touched at the
+sight of his public disgrace, so she had had his sentence remitted, and
+he had been obliged to go back to the ward, to the work he loathed, to
+the patients he despised, after only two hours' freedom in a rare
+October sun. Since then, he had carefully avoided the _Directrice_ when
+he saw her blue cloak in the distance, coming down the _trottoir_. Women
+were a nuisance at the Front.
+
+He frequently encountered the man who picked up papers, and frankly
+envied him, for this man had a very easy post. He was mobilized as a
+member of the _formation_ of Hospital Number ----, and his work consisted
+in picking up scraps of paper scattered about the grounds within the
+enclosure. He had a long stick with a nail in the end, and a small
+basket because there wasn't much to pick up. With the nail, he picked up
+what scraps there were, and did not even have to stoop over to do it. He
+walked about in the clean, fresh air, and when it rained, he cuddled up
+against the stove in the pharmacy. The present paper-gatherer was a
+chemist; his predecessor had been a priest. It was a very nice position
+for an able-bodied man with some education, and Fouquet greatly desired
+it himself, only he feared he was not sufficiently well educated, since
+in civil life he was only a farm hand. So in his march up and down the
+_trottoir_ he cast envious glances at the man who picked up papers.
+
+So, bearing his full-weight marching kit, he walked up and down, between
+the _baracques_, dogged and defiant. The other orderlies and stretcher
+bearers laughed at him, and said: "There goes Fouquet, punished!" And
+the patients, who missed him, asked: "Where is Fouquet? Punished?" And
+the nurse of that ward, who also missed Fouquet, said: "Poor Fouquet!
+Punished!" But Fouquet, swaggering up and down in full sight of all, was
+pleased because he had had a good drink the night before, and did not
+have to wait upon the patients the day after, and to him, the only sane
+thing about the war was the discipline of the Army.
+
+
+
+
+ALONE
+
+
+Rochard died to-day. He had gas gangrene. His thigh, from knee to
+buttock, was torn out by a piece of German shell. It was an interesting
+case, because the infection had developed so quickly. He had been placed
+under treatment immediately too, reaching the hospital from the trenches
+about six hours after he had been wounded. To have a thigh torn off, and
+to reach first-class surgical care within six hours, is practically
+immediately. Still, gas gangrene had developed, which showed that the
+Germans were using very poisonous shells. At that field hospital there
+had been established a surgical school, to which young men, just
+graduated from medical schools, or old men, graduated long ago from
+medical schools, were sent to learn how to take care of the wounded.
+After they had received a two months' experience in this sort of war
+surgery, they were to be placed in other hospitals, where they could do
+the work themselves. So all those young men who did not know much, and
+all those old men who had never known much, and had forgotten most of
+that, were up here at this field hospital, learning. This had to be
+done, because there were not enough good doctors to go round, so in
+order to care for the wounded at all, it was necessary to furbish up the
+immature and the senile. However, the _Médecin Chef_ in charge of the
+hospital and in charge of the surgical school, was a brilliant surgeon
+and a good administrator, so he taught the students a good deal.
+Therefore, when Rochard came into the operating room, all the young
+students and the old students crowded round to see the case. It was all
+torn away, the flesh from that right thigh, from knee to buttock, down
+to the bone, and the stench was awful. The various students came forward
+and timidly pressed the upper part of the thigh, the remaining part, all
+that remained of it, with their fingers, and little crackling noises
+came forth, like bubbles. Gas gangrene. Very easy to diagnose. Also the
+bacteriologist from another hospital in the region happened to be
+present, and he made a culture of the material discharged from that
+wound, and afterwards told the _Médecin Chef_ that it was positively and
+absolutely gas gangrene. But the _Médecin Chef_ had already taught the
+students that gas gangrene may be recognized by the crackling and the
+smell, and the fact that the patient, as a rule, dies pretty soon.
+
+They could not operate on Rochard and amputate his leg, as they wanted
+to do. The infection was so high, into the hip, it could not be done.
+Moreover, Rochard had a fractured skull as well. Another piece of shell
+had pierced his ear, and broken into his brain, and lodged there. Either
+wound would have been fatal, but it was the gas gangrene in his torn-out
+thigh that would kill him first. The wound stank. It was foul. The
+_Médecin Chef_ took a curette, a little scoop, and scooped away the dead
+flesh, the dead muscles, the dead nerves, the dead blood-vessels. And so
+many blood-vessels being dead, being scooped away by that sharp curette,
+how could the blood circulate in the top half of that flaccid thigh? It
+couldn't. Afterwards, into the deep, yawning wound, they put many
+compresses of gauze, soaked in carbolic acid, which acid burned deep
+into the germs of the gas gangrene, and killed them, and killed much
+good tissue besides. Then they covered the burning, smoking gauze with
+absorbent cotton, then with clean, neat bandages, after which they
+called the stretcher bearers, and Rochard was carried from the
+operating table back to the ward.
+
+The night nurse reported next morning that he had passed a night of
+agony.
+
+"_Cela pique! Cela brule!_" he cried all night, and turned from side
+to side to find relief. Sometimes he lay on his good side; sometimes he
+lay on his bad side, and the night nurse turned him from side to side,
+according to his fancy, because she knew that on neither one side nor
+the other would he find relief, except such mental relief as he got by
+turning. She sent one of the orderlies, Fouquet, for the _Médecin Chef_,
+and the _Médecin Chef_ came to the ward, and looked at Rochard, and
+ordered the night nurse to give him morphia, and again morphia, as often
+as she thought best. For only death could bring relief from such pain as
+that, and only morphia, a little in advance of death, could bring
+partial relief.
+
+So the night nurse took care of Rochard all that night, and turned him
+and turned him, from one side to the other, and gave him morphia, as the
+_Médecin Chef_ had ordered. She listened to his cries all night, for the
+morphia brought him no relief. Morphia gives a little relief, at times,
+from the pain of life, but it is only death that brings absolute relief.
+
+When the day nurse came on duty next morning, there was Rochard in
+agony. "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_" he cried. And again and again, all
+the time, "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_", meaning the pain in his leg.
+And because of the piece of shell, which had penetrated his ear and
+lodged in his brain somewhere, his wits were wandering. No one can be
+fully conscious with an inch of German shell in his skull. And there was
+a full inch of German shell in Rochard's skull, in his brain somewhere,
+for the radiographist said so. He was a wonderful radiographist and
+anatomist, and he worked accurately with a beautiful, expensive
+machine, given him, or given the field hospital, by Madame Curie.
+
+So all night Rochard screamed in agony, and turned and twisted, first on
+the hip that was there, and then on the hip that was gone, and on
+neither side, even with many ampoules of morphia, could he find relief.
+Which shows that morphia, good as it is, is not as good as death. So
+when the day nurse came on in the morning, there was Rochard strong
+after a night of agony, strong after many _picqures_ of strychnia, which
+kept his heart beating and his lungs breathing, strong after many
+_picqures_ of morphia which did not relieve his pain. Thus the science
+of healing stood baffled before the science of destroying.
+
+Rochard died slowly. He stopped struggling. He gave up trying to find
+relief by lying upon the hip that was there, or the hip that was gone.
+He ceased to cry. His brain, in which was lodged a piece of German
+shell, seemed to reason, to become reasonable, with break of day. The
+evening before, after his return from the operating room, he had been
+decorated with the _Médaille Militaire_, conferred upon him, _in
+extremis_, by the General of the region. Upon one side of the medal,
+which was pinned to the wall at the head of the bed, were the words:
+_Valeur et Discipline_. Discipline had triumphed. He was very good and
+quiet now, very obedient and disciplined, and no longer disturbed the
+ward with his moanings.
+
+Little Rochard! Little man, gardener by trade, aged thirty-nine,
+widower, with one child! The piece of shell in his skull had made one
+eye blind. There had been a hæmorrhage into the eyeball, which was all
+red and sunken, and the eyelid would not close over it, so the red eye
+stared and stared into space. And the other eye drooped and drooped, and
+the white showed, and the eyelid drooped till nothing but the white
+showed, and that showed that he was dying. But the blind, red eye stared
+beyond. It stared fixedly, unwinkingly, into space. So always the nurse
+watched the dull, white eye, which showed the approach of death.
+
+No one in the ward was fond of Rochard. He had been there only a few
+hours. He meant nothing to any one there. He was a dying man, in a field
+hospital, that was all. Little stranger Rochard, with one blind, red eye
+that stared into Hell, the Hell he had come from. And one white, dying
+eye, that showed his hold on life, his brief, short hold. The nurse
+cared for him very gently, very conscientiously, very skilfully. The
+surgeon came many times to look at him, but he had done for him all that
+could be done, so each time he turned away with a shrug. Fouquet, the
+young orderly, stood at the foot of the bed, his feet far apart, his
+hands on his hips, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! La la! La
+la!_" And Simon, the other orderly, also stood at the foot of the bed,
+from time to time, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! C'est triste!
+C'est bien triste!_"
+
+So Rochard died, a stranger among strangers. And there were many people
+there to wait upon him, but there was no one there to love him. There
+was no one there to see beyond the horror of the red, blind eye, of the
+dull, white eye, of the vile, gangrene smell. And it seemed as if the
+red, staring eye was looking for something the hospital could not give.
+And it seemed as if the white, glazed eye was indifferent to everything
+the hospital could give. And all about him was the vile gangrene smell,
+which made an aura about him, and shut him into himself, very
+completely. And there was nobody to love him, to forget about that
+smell.
+
+He sank into a stupor about ten o'clock in the morning, and was
+unconscious from then till the time the nurse went to lunch. She went
+to lunch reluctantly, but it is necessary to eat. She instructed
+Fouquet, the orderly, to watch Rochard carefully, and to call her if
+there was any change.
+
+After a short time she came back from lunch, and hurried to see Rochard,
+hurried behind the flamboyant, red, cheerful screens that shut him off
+from the rest of the ward. Rochard was dead.
+
+At the other end of the ward sat the two orderlies, drinking wine.
+
+    PARIS,
+April 15, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+A BELGIAN CIVILIAN
+
+
+A big English ambulance drove along the high road from Ypres, going in
+the direction of a French field hospital, some ten miles from Ypres.
+Ordinarily, it could have had no business with this French hospital,
+since all English wounded are conveyed back to their own bases,
+therefore an exceptional case must have determined its route. It was an
+exceptional case--for the patient lying quietly within its yawning body,
+sheltered by its brown canvas wings, was not an English soldier, but
+only a small Belgian boy, a civilian, and Belgian civilians belong
+neither to the French nor English services. It is true that there was a
+hospital for Belgian civilians at the English base at Hazebrouck, and it
+would have seemed reasonable to have taken the patient there, but it
+was more reasonable to dump him at this French hospital, which was
+nearer. Not from any humanitarian motives, but just to get rid of him
+the sooner. In war, civilians are cheap things at best, and an immature
+civilian, Belgian at that, is very cheap. So the heavy English ambulance
+churned its way up a muddy hill, mashed through much mud at the entrance
+gates of the hospital, and crunched to a halt on the cinders before the
+_Salle d'Attente_, where it discharged its burden and drove off again.
+
+The surgeon of the French hospital said: "What have we to do with this?"
+yet he regarded the patient thoughtfully. It was a very small patient.
+Moreover, the big English ambulance had driven off again, so there was
+no appeal. The small patient had been deposited upon one of the beds in
+the _Salle d'Attente_, and the French surgeon looked at him and wondered
+what he should do. The patient, now that he was here, belonged as much
+to the French field hospital as to any other, and as the big English
+ambulance from Ypres had driven off again, there was not much use in
+protesting. The French surgeon was annoyed and irritated. It was a
+characteristic English trick, he thought, this getting other people to
+do their work. Why could they not have taken the child to one of their
+own hospitals, since he had been wounded in their lines, or else have
+taken him to the hospital provided for Belgian civilians, where, full as
+it was, there was always room for people as small as this. The surgeon
+worked himself up into quite a temper. There is one thing about members
+of the _Entente_--they understand each other. The French surgeon's
+thoughts travelled round and round in an irritated circle, and always
+came back to the fact that the English ambulance had gone, and here lay
+the patient, and something must be done. So he stood considering.
+
+A Belgian civilian, aged ten. Or thereabouts. Shot through the abdomen,
+or thereabouts. And dying, obviously. As usual, the surgeon pulled and
+twisted the long, black hairs on his hairy, bare arms, while he
+considered what he should do. He considered for five minutes, and then
+ordered the child to the operating room, and scrubbed and scrubbed his
+hands and his hairy arms, preparatory to a major operation. For the
+Belgian civilian, aged ten, had been shot through the abdomen by a
+German shell, or piece of shell, and there was nothing to do but try to
+remove it. It was a hopeless case, anyhow. The child would die without
+an operation, or he would die during the operation, or he would die
+after the operation. The French surgeon scrubbed his hands viciously,
+for he was still greatly incensed over the English authorities who had
+placed the case in his hands and then gone away again. They should have
+taken him to one of the English bases, St. Omer, or Hazebrouck--it was
+an imposition to have dumped him so unceremoniously here simply because
+"here" was so many kilometres nearer. "Shirking," the surgeon called it,
+and was much incensed.
+
+After a most searching operation, the Belgian civilian was sent over to
+the ward, to live or die as circumstances determined. As soon as he came
+out of ether, he began to bawl for his mother. Being ten years of age,
+he was unreasonable, and bawled for her incessantly and could not be
+pacified. The patients were greatly annoyed by this disturbance, and
+there was indignation that the welfare and comfort of useful soldiers
+should be interfered with by the whims of a futile and useless civilian,
+a Belgian child at that. The nurse of that ward also made a fool of
+herself over this civilian, giving him far more attention than she had
+ever bestowed upon a soldier. She was sentimental, and his little age
+appealed to her--her sense of proportion and standard of values were all
+awrong. The _Directrice_ appeared in the ward and tried to comfort the
+civilian, to still his howls, and then, after an hour of vain effort,
+she decided that his mother must be sent for. He was obviously dying,
+and it was necessary to send for his mother, whom alone of all the world
+he seemed to need. So a French ambulance, which had nothing to do with
+Belgian civilians, nor with Ypres, was sent over to Ypres late in the
+evening to fetch this mother for whom the Belgian civilian, aged ten,
+bawled so persistently.
+
+She arrived finally, and, it appeared, reluctantly. About ten o'clock in
+the evening she arrived, and the moment she alighted from the big
+ambulance sent to fetch her, she began complaining. She had complained
+all the way over, said the chauffeur. She climbed down backward from the
+front seat, perched for a moment on the hub, while one heavy leg, with
+foot shod in slipping _sabot_, groped wildly for the ground. A soldier
+with a lantern watched impassively, watched her solid splash into a mud
+puddle that might have been avoided. So she continued her complaints.
+She had been dragged away from her husband, from her other children, and
+she seemed to have little interest in her son, the Belgian civilian,
+said to be dying. However, now that she was here, now that she had come
+all this way, she would go in to see him for a moment, since the
+_Directrice_ seemed to think it so important. The _Directrice_ of this
+French field hospital was an American, by marriage a British subject,
+and she had curious, antiquated ideas. She seemed to feel that a
+mother's place was with her child, if that child was dying. The
+_Directrice_ had three children of her own whom she had left in England
+over a year ago, when she came out to Flanders for the life and
+adventures of the Front. But she would have returned to England
+immediately, without an instant's hesitation, had she received word that
+one of these children was dying. Which was a point of view opposed to
+that of this Belgian mother, who seemed to feel that her place was back
+in Ypres, in her home, with her husband and other children. In fact,
+this Belgian mother had been rudely dragged away from her home, from her
+family, from certain duties that she seemed to think important. So she
+complained bitterly, and went into the ward most reluctantly, to see her
+son, said to be dying.
+
+She saw her son, and kissed him, and then asked to be sent back to
+Ypres. The _Directrice_ explained that the child would not live through
+the night. The Belgian mother accepted this statement, but again asked
+to be sent back to Ypres. The _Directrice_ again assured the Belgian
+mother that her son would not live through the night, and asked her to
+spend the night with him in the ward, to assist at his passing. The
+Belgian woman protested.
+
+"If _Madame la Directrice_ commands, if she insists, then I must
+assuredly obey. I have come all this distance because she commanded me,
+and if she insists that I spend the night at this place, then I must do
+so. Only if she does not insist, then I prefer to return to my home, to
+my other children at Ypres."
+
+However, the _Directrice_, who had a strong sense of a mother's duty to
+the dying, commanded and insisted, and the Belgian woman gave way. She
+sat by her son all night, listening to his ravings and bawlings, and was
+with him when he died, at three o'clock in the morning. After which
+time, she requested to be taken back to Ypres. She was moved by the
+death of her son, but her duty lay at home. _Madame la Directrice_ had
+promised to have a mass said at the burial of the child, which promise
+having been given, the woman saw no necessity for remaining.
+
+"My husband," she explained, "has a little _estaminet_, just outside of
+Ypres. We have been very fortunate. Only yesterday, of all the long days
+of the war, of the many days of bombardment, did a shell fall into our
+kitchen, wounding our son, as you have seen. But we have other children
+to consider, to provide for. And my husband is making much money at
+present, selling drink to the English soldiers. I must return to assist
+him."
+
+So the Belgian civilian was buried in the cemetery of the French
+soldiers, but many hours before this took place, the mother of the
+civilian had departed for Ypres. The chauffeur of the ambulance which
+was to convey her back to Ypres turned very white when given his
+orders. Everyone dreaded Ypres, and the dangers of Ypres. It was the
+place of death. Only the Belgian woman, whose husband kept an
+_estaminet_, and made much money selling drink to the English soldiers,
+did not dread it. She and her husband were making much money out of the
+war, money which would give their children a start in life. When the
+ambulance was ready she climbed into it with alacrity, although with a
+feeling of gratitude because the _Directrice_ had promised a mass for
+her dead child.
+
+"These Belgians!" said a French soldier. "How prosperous they will be
+after the war! How much money they will make from the Americans, and
+from the others who come to see the ruins!"
+
+And as an afterthought, in an undertone, he added: "_Ces sales
+Belges!_"
+
+
+
+
+THE INTERVAL
+
+
+As an orderly, Erard wasn't much good. He never waited upon the patients
+if he could help it, and when he couldn't help it, he was so
+disagreeable that they wished they had not asked him for things. The
+newcomers, who had been in the hospital only a few days, used to think
+he was deaf, since he failed to hear their requests, and they did not
+like to yell at him, out of consideration for their comrades in the
+adjoining beds. Nor was he a success at sweeping the ward, since he did
+it with the broom in one hand and a copy of the _Petit Parisien_ in the
+other--in fact, when he sat down on a bed away at the end and frankly
+gave himself up to a two-year-old copy of _Le Rire_, sent out with a lot
+of old magazines for the patients, he was no less effective than when
+he sulkily worked. There was just one thing he liked and did well, and
+that was to watch for the Generals. He was an expert in recognizing them
+when they were as yet a long way off. He used to slouch against the
+window panes and keep a keen eye upon the _trottoir_ on such days or at
+such hours as the Generals were likely to appear. Upon catching sight of
+the oak-leaves in the distance, he would at once notify the ward, so
+that the orderlies and the nurse could tidy up things before the General
+made rounds. He had a very keen eye for oak-leaves--the golden
+oak-leaves on the General's _képi_--and he never by any chance gave a
+false alarm or mistook a colonel in the distance, and so put us to
+tidying up unnecessarily. He did not help with the work of course, but
+continued leaning against the window, reporting the General's progress
+up the _trottoir_--that he had now gone into Salle III.--that he had
+left Salle III. and was conversing outside Salle II.--that he was now,
+positively, on his way up the incline leading into Salle I., and would
+be upon us any minute. Sometimes the General lingered unnecessarily long
+on the incline, the wooden slope leading up to the ward, in which case
+he was not visible from the window, and Erard would amuse us by
+regretting that he had no periscope for the transom over the door.
+
+There were two Generals who visited the hospital. The big General, the
+important one, the Commander of the region, who was always beautiful to
+look upon in his tight, well-fitting black jacket, trimmed with
+astrakhan, who came from his limousine with a Normandy stick dangling
+from his wrist, and who wore spotless, clean gloves. This, the big
+General, came to decorate the men who were entitled to the _Croix de
+Guerre_ and the _Médaille Militaire_, and after he had decorated one or
+two, as the case might be, he usually continued on through the
+hospital, shaking hands here and there with the patients, and chatting
+with the _Directrice_ and with the doctors and officers who followed in
+his wake. The other General was not nearly so imposing. He was short and
+fat and dressed in a grey-blue uniform, of the shade known as invisible,
+and his _képi_ was hidden by a grey-blue cover, with a little square
+hole cut out in front, so that an inch of oak-leaves might be seen. He
+was much more formidable than the big General, however, since he was the
+_Médecin Inspecteur_ of the region, and was responsible for all the
+hospitals thereabouts. He made rather extensive rounds, closely
+questioning the surgeons as to the wounds and treatment of each man, and
+as he was a doctor as well, he knew how to judge of the replies. Whereas
+the big General was a soldier and not a doctor, and was thus unable to
+ask any disconcerting questions, so that his visits, while tedious,
+were never embarrassing. When a General came on the place, it was a
+signal to down tools. The surgeons would hurriedly finish their
+operations, or postpone them if possible, and the dressings in the wards
+were also stopped or postponed, while the surgeons would hurry after the
+General, whichever one it was, and make deferential rounds with him, if
+it took all day. And as it usually took at least two hours, the visits
+of the Generals, one or both, meant considerable interruption to the
+hospital routine. Sometimes, by chance, both Generals arrived at the
+same time, which meant that there were double rounds, beginning at
+opposite ends of the enclosure, and the surgeons were in a quandary as
+to whose suite they should attach themselves. And the days when it was
+busiest, when the work was hardest, when there was more work than double
+the staff could accomplish in twenty-four hours, were the days that the
+Generals usually appeared.
+
+There are some days when it is very bad in a field hospital, just as
+there are some days when there is nothing to do, and the whole staff is
+practically idle. The bad days are those when the endless roar of the
+guns makes the little wooden _baracques_ rock and rattle, and when
+endless processions of ambulances drive in and deliver broken, ruined
+men, and then drive off again, to return loaded with more wrecks. The
+beds in the _Salle d'Attente_, where the ambulances unload, are filled
+with heaps under blankets. Coarse, hobnailed boots stick out from the
+blankets, and sometimes the heaps, which are men, moan or are silent. On
+the floor lie piles of clothing, filthy, muddy, blood-soaked, torn or
+cut from the silent bodies on the beds. The stretcher bearers step over
+these piles of dirty clothing, or kick them aside, as they lift the
+shrinking bodies to the brown stretchers, and carry them across, one
+by one, to the operating room. The operating room is filled with
+stretchers, lying in rows upon the floor, waiting their turn to be
+emptied, to have their burdens lifted from them to the high operating
+tables. And as fast as the stretchers are emptied, the stretcher-bearers
+hurry back to the _Salle d'Attente_, where the ambulances dump their
+loads, and come over to the operating room again, with fresh lots. Three
+tables going in the operating room, and the white-gowned surgeons stand
+so thick around the tables that you cannot see what is on them. There
+are stretchers lying on the floor of the corridor, and against the walls
+of the operating room, and more ambulances are driving in all the time.
+
+From the operating room they are brought into the wards, these bandaged
+heaps from the operating tables, these heaps that once were men. The
+clean beds of the ward are turned back to receive them, to receive the
+motionless, bandaged heaps that are lifted, shoved, or rolled from the
+stretchers to the beds. Again and again, all day long, the procession of
+stretchers comes into the wards. The foremost bearer kicks open the door
+with his knee, and lets in ahead of him a blast of winter rain, which
+sets dancing the charts and papers lying on the table, and blows out the
+alcohol lamp over which the syringe is boiling. Someone bangs the door
+shut. The unconscious form is loaded on the bed. He is heavy and the bed
+sags beneath his weight. The _brancardiers_ gather up their red blankets
+and shuffle off again, leaving cakes of mud and streaks of muddy water
+on the green linoleum. Outside the guns roar and inside the _baracques_
+shake, and again and again the stretcher bearers come into the ward,
+carrying dying men from the high tables in the operating room. They are
+all that stand between us and the guns, these wrecks upon the beds.
+Others like them are standing between us and the guns, others like
+them, who will reach us before morning. Wrecks like these. They are old
+men, most of them. The old troops, grey and bearded.
+
+There is an attack going on. That does not mean that the Germans are
+advancing. It just means that the ambulances are busy, for these old
+troops, these old wrecks upon the beds, are holding up the Germans.
+Otherwise, we should be swept out of existence. Our hospital, ourselves,
+would be swept out of existence, were it not for these old wrecks upon
+the beds. These filthy, bearded, dying men upon the beds, who are
+holding back the Germans. More like them, in the trenches, are holding
+back the Germans. By tomorrow these others, too, will be with us,
+bleeding, dying. But there will be others like them in the trenches, to
+hold back the Germans.
+
+This is the day of an attack. Yesterday was the day of an attack. The
+day before was the day of an attack. The guns are raising Hell, seven
+kilometres beyond us, and our _baracques_ shake and tremble with their
+thunder. These men, grey and bearded, dying in our clean beds, wetting
+our clean sheets with the blood that oozes from their dressings, have
+been out there, moaning in the trenches. When they die, we will pull off
+the bloody sheets, and replace them with fresh, clean ones, and turn
+them back neatly, waiting for the next agonizing man. We have many beds,
+and many fresh, clean sheets, and so we are always ready for these old,
+hairy men, who are standing between us and the Germans.
+
+They seem very weak and frail and thin. How can they do it, these old
+men? Last summer the young boys did it. Now it is the turn of these old
+men.
+
+There are three dying in the ward today. It will be better when they
+die. The German shells have made them ludicrous, repulsive. We see them
+in this awful interval, between life and death. This interval when they
+are gross, absurd, fantastic. Life is clean and death is clean, but this
+interval between the two is gross, absurd, fantastic.
+
+Over there, down at the end, is Rollin. He came in three days ago. A
+piece of shell penetrated his right eyelid, a little wound so small that
+it was not worth a dressing. Yet that little piece of _obus_ lodged
+somewhere inside his skull, above his left ear, so the radiographist
+says, and he's paralyzed. Paralyzed all down the other side, and one
+supine hand flops about, and one supine leg flops about, in jerks. One
+bleary eye stays open, and the other eyelid stays shut, over the other
+bleary eye. Meningitis has set in and it won't be long now, before we'll
+have another empty bed. Yellow foam flows down his nose, thick yellow
+foam, bubbles of it, bursting, bubbling yellow foam. It humps up under
+his nose, up and up, in bubbles, and the bubbles burst and run in
+turgid streams down upon his shaggy beard. On the wall, above his bed,
+hang his medals. They are hung up, high up, so he can see them. He can't
+see them today, because now he is unconscious, but yesterday and the day
+before, before he got as bad as this, he could see them and it made him
+cry. He knew he had been decorated _in extremis_, because he was going
+to die, and he did not want to die. So he sobbed and sobbed all the
+while the General decorated him, and protested that he did not want to
+die. He'd saved three men from death, earning those medals, and at the
+time he never thought of death himself. Yet in the ward he sobbed and
+sobbed, and protested that he did not want to die.
+
+Back of those red screens is Henri. He is a priest, mobilized as
+_infirmier_. A good one too, and very tender and gentle with the
+patients. He comes from the ward next door, Salle II., and is giving
+extreme unction to the man in that bed, back of the red screens. Peek
+through the screens and you can see Henri, in his shirt sleeves, with a
+little, crumpled, purple stole around his neck. No, the patient has
+never regained consciousness since he's been here, but Henri says it's
+all right. He may be a Catholic. Better to take chances. It can't hurt
+him, anyway, if he isn't. I am glad Henri is back of those red screens.
+A few minutes ago he came down the ward, in search of absorbent cotton
+for the Holy Oils, and then he got so interested watching the doctors
+doing dressings, stayed so long watching them, that I thought he would
+not get back again, behind the screens, in time.
+
+See that man in the bed next? He's dying too. They trepanned him when he
+came. He can't speak, but we got his name and regiment from the medal on
+his wrist. He wants to write. Isn't it funny! He has a block of paper
+and a pencil, and all day long he writes, writes, on the paper. Always
+and always, over and over again, he writes on the paper, and he gives
+the paper to everyone who passes. He's got something on his mind that he
+wants to get across, before he dies. But no one can understand him. No
+one can read what he has written--it is just scrawls, scribbles,
+unintelligible. Day and night, for he never sleeps, he writes on that
+block of paper, and tears off the sheets and gives them to everyone
+who passes. And no one can understand, for it is just illegible,
+unintelligible scribbles. Once we took the paper away to see what he
+would do and then he wrote with his finger upon the wooden frame of the
+screen. The same thing, scribbles, but they made no mark on the screen,
+and he seemed so distressed because they made no mark that we gave him
+back his paper again, and now he's happy. Or I suppose he's happy. He
+seems content when we take this paper and pretend to read it. He seems
+happy, scribbling those words that are words to him but not to us.
+Careful! Don't stand too close! He spits. Yes, all the time, at the end
+of every line he spits. Far too. Way across the ward. Don't you see that
+his bed and the bed next are covered with rubber sheets? That's because
+he spits. Big spits, too, far across the ward. And always he writes,
+incessantly, day and night. He writes on that block of paper and spits
+way across the ward at the end of every line. He's got something on his
+mind that he wants to get across. Do you think he's thinking of the
+Germans? He's dying though. He can't spit so far today as he did
+yesterday.
+
+Death is dignified and life is dignified, but the intervals are awful.
+They are ludicrous, repulsive.
+
+Is that Erard, calling? Calling that the Generals are coming, both of
+them, together? Hurry! Tidy up the ward! Rub away the froth from under
+Rollin's nose! Pull his sheets straight! Take that wet towel, and clean
+the mackintosh upon that bed and the bed adjoining. See if Henri's
+finished. Take away the screens. Pull the sheets straight. Tidy up the
+ward--tell the others not to budge! The Generals are coming!
+
+    PARIS,
+9 May, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+WOMEN AND WIVES
+
+
+A bitter wind swept in from the North Sea. It swept in over many miles
+of Flanders plains, driving gusts of rain before it. It was a biting
+gale by the time it reached the little cluster of wooden huts composing
+the field hospital, and rain and wind together dashed against the huts,
+blew under them, blew through them, crashed to pieces a swinging window
+down at the laundry, and loosened the roof of Salle I. at the other end
+of the enclosure. It was just ordinary winter weather, such as had
+lasted for months on end, and which the Belgians spoke of as vile
+weather, while the French called it vile Belgian weather. The drenching
+rain soaked into the long, green winter grass, and the sweeping wind was
+bitter cold, and the howling of the wind was louder than the guns, so
+that it was only when the wind paused for a moment, between blasts, that
+the rolling of the guns could be heard.
+
+In Salle I. the stove had gone out. It was a good little stove, but
+somehow was unequal to struggling with the wind which blew down the
+long, rocking stove pipe, and blew the fire out. So the little stove
+grew cold, and the hot water jug on the stove grew cold, and all the
+patients at that end of the ward likewise grew cold, and demanded hot
+water bottles, and there wasn't any hot water with which to fill them.
+So the patients complained and shivered, and in the pauses of the wind,
+one heard the guns.
+
+Then the roof of the ward lifted about an inch, and more wind beat down,
+and as it beat down, so the roof lifted. The orderly remarked that if
+this Belgian weather continued, by tomorrow the roof would be clean
+off--blown off into the German lines. So all laughed as Fouquet said
+this, and wondered how they could lie abed with the roof of Salle I.,
+the Salle of the _Grands Blessés_, blown over into the German lines. The
+ward did not present a neat appearance, for all the beds were pushed
+about at queer angles, in from the wall, out from the wall, some
+touching each other, some very far apart, and all to avoid the little
+leaks of rain which streamed or dropped down from little holes in the
+roof. This weary, weary war! These long days of boredom in the hospital,
+these days of incessant wind and rain and cold.
+
+Armand, the chief orderly, ordered Fouquet to rebuild the fire, and
+Fouquet slipped on his _sabots_ and clogged down the ward, away outdoors
+in the wind, and returned finally with a box of coal on his shoulders,
+which he dumped heavily on the floor. He was clumsy and sullen, and the
+coal was wet and mostly slate, and the patients laughed at his efforts
+to rebuild the fire. Finally, however, it was alight again, and radiated
+out a faint warmth, which served to bring out the smell of iodoform, and
+of draining wounds, and other smells which loaded the cold, close air.
+Then, no one knows who began it, one of the patients showed the nurse a
+photograph of his wife and child, and in a moment every man in the
+twenty beds was fishing back of his bed, in his _musette_, under his
+pillow, for photographs of his wife. They all had wives, it seems, for
+remember, these were the old troops, who had replaced the young Zouaves
+who had guarded this part of the Front all summer. One by one they came
+out, these photographs, from weatherbeaten sacks, from shabby boxes,
+from under pillows, and the nurse must see them all. Pathetic little
+pictures they were, of common, working-class women, some fat and
+work-worn, some thin and work-worn, some with stodgy little children
+grouped about them, some without, but all were practically the same.
+They were the wives of these men in the beds here, the working-class
+wives of working-class men--the soldiers of the trenches. Ah yes, France
+is democratic. It is the Nation's war, and all the men of the Nation,
+regardless of rank, are serving. But some serve in better places than
+others. The trenches are mostly reserved for men of the working class,
+which is reasonable, as there are more of them.
+
+The rain beat down, and the little stove glowed, and the afternoon drew
+to a close, and the photographs of the wives continued to pass from hand
+to hand. There was much talk of home, and much of it was longing, and
+much of it was pathetic, and much of it was resigned. And always the
+little, ugly wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented home. And
+the words home and wife were interchangeable and stood for the same
+thing. And the glories and heroisms of war seemed of less interest, as
+a factor in life, than these stupid little wives.
+
+Then Armand, the chief orderly, showed them all the photograph of his
+wife. No one knew that he was married, but he said yes, and that he
+received a letter from her every day--sometimes it was a postcard. Also
+that he wrote to her every day. We all knew how nervous he used to get,
+about letter time, when the _vaguemestre_ made his rounds, every
+morning, distributing letters to all the wards. We all knew how
+impatient he used to get, when the _vaguemestre_ laid his letter upon
+the table, and there it lay, on the table, while he was forced to make
+rounds with the surgeon, and could not claim it until long afterwards.
+So it was from his wife, that daily letter, so anxiously, so nervously
+awaited!
+
+Simon had a wife too. Simon, the young surgeon, German-looking in
+appearance, six feet of blond brute. But not blond brute really.
+Whatever his appearance, there was in him something finer, something
+tenderer, something nobler, to distinguish him from the brute. About
+three times a week he walked into the ward with his fountain pen between
+his teeth--he did not smoke, but he chewed his fountain pen--and when
+the dressings were over, he would tell the nurse, shyly, accidentally,
+as it were, some little news about his home. Some little incident
+concerning his wife, some affectionate anecdote about his three young
+children. Once when one of the staff went over to London on vacation,
+Simon asked her to buy for his wife a leather coat, such as English
+women wear, for motoring. Always he thought of his wife, spoke of his
+wife, planned some thoughtful little surprise or gift for her.
+
+You know, they won't let wives come to the Front. Women can come into
+the War Zone, on various pretexts, but wives cannot. Wives, it appears,
+are bad for the morale of the Army. They come with their troubles, to
+talk of how business is failing, of how things are going to the bad at
+home, because of the war; of how great the struggle, how bitter the
+trials and the poverty and hardship. They establish the connecting link
+between the soldier and his life at home, his life that he is compelled
+to resign. Letters can be censored and all disturbing items cut out, but
+if a wife is permitted to come to the War Zone, to see her husband,
+there is no censoring the things she may tell him. The disquieting,
+disturbing things. So she herself must be censored, not permitted to
+come. So for long weary months men must remain at the Front, on active
+inactivity, and their wives cannot come to see them. Only other people's
+wives may come. It is not the woman but the wife that is objected to.
+There is a difference. In war, it is very great.
+
+There are many women at the Front. How do they get there, to the Zone
+of the Armies? On various pretexts--to see sick relatives, in such and
+such hospitals, or to see other relatives, brothers, uncles, cousins,
+other people's husbands--oh, there are many reasons which make it
+possible for them to come. And always there are the Belgian women, who
+live in the War Zone, for at present there is a little strip of Belgium
+left, and all the civilians have not been evacuated from the Army Zone.
+So there are plenty of women, first and last. Better ones for the
+officers, naturally, just as the officers' mess is of better quality
+than that of the common soldiers. But always there are plenty of women.
+Never wives, who mean responsibility, but just women, who only mean
+distraction and amusement, just as food and wine. So wives are
+forbidden, because lowering to the morale, but women are winked at,
+because they cheer and refresh the troops. After the war, it is hoped
+that all unmarried soldiers will marry, but doubtless they will not
+marry these women who have served and cheered them in the War Zone.
+That, again, would be depressing to the country's morale. It is rather
+paradoxical, but there are those who can explain it perfectly.
+
+No, no, I don't understand. It's because everything has two sides. You
+would be surprised to pick up a franc, and find Liberty, Equality, and
+Fraternity on one side, and on the other, the image of the Sower
+smoothed out. A rose is a fine rose because of the manure you put at its
+roots. You don't get a medal for sustained nobility. You get it for the
+impetuous action of the moment, an action quite out of keeping with the
+trend of one's daily life. You speak of the young aviator who was
+decorated for destroying a Zeppelin single-handed, and in the next
+breath you add, and he killed himself, a few days later, by attempting
+to fly when he was drunk. So it goes. There is a dirty sediment at the
+bottom of most souls. War, superb as it is, is not necessarily a
+filtering process, by which men and nations may be purified. Well, there
+are many people to write you of the noble side, the heroic side, the
+exalted side of war. I must write you of what I have seen, the other
+side, the backwash. They are both true. In Spain, they bang their silver
+coins upon a marble slab, accepting the stamp upon both sides, and then
+decide whether as a whole they ring true.
+
+Every now and then, Armand, the orderly, goes to the village to get a
+bath. He comes back with very clean hands and nails, and says that it
+has greatly solaced him, the warm water. Then later, that same evening,
+he gets permission to be absent from the hospital, and he goes to our
+village to a girl. But he is always as eager, as nervous for his wife's
+letter as ever. It is the same with Simon, the young surgeon. Only Simon
+keeps himself pretty clean at all times, as he has an orderly to bring
+him pitchers of hot water every morning, as many as he wants. But Simon
+has a girl in the village, to whom he goes every week. Only, why does he
+talk so incessantly about his wife, and show her pictures to me, to
+everyone about the place? Why should we all be bored with tales of
+Simon's stupid wife, when that's all she means to him? Only perhaps she
+means more. I told you I did not understand.
+
+Then the _Gestionnaire_, the little fat man in khaki, who is purveyor to
+the hospital. Every night he commandeers an ambulance, and drives back
+into the country, to a village twelve miles away, to sleep with a woman.
+And the old doctor--he is sixty-four and has grandchildren--he goes down
+to our village for a little girl of fourteen. He was decorated with the
+Legion of Honour the other day. It seems incongruous.
+
+Oh yes, of course these were decent girls at the start, at the
+beginning of the war. But you know women, how they run after men,
+especially when the men wear uniforms, all gilt buttons and braid. It's
+not the men's fault that most of the women in the War Zone are ruined.
+Have you ever watched the village girls when a regiment comes through,
+or stops for a night or two, _en repos_, on its way to the Front? Have
+you seen the girls make fools of themselves over the men? Well, that's
+why there are so many accessible for the troops. Of course the
+professional prostitutes from Paris aren't admitted to the War Zone, but
+the Belgian girls made such fools of themselves, the others weren't
+needed.
+
+Across the lines, back of the German lines, in the invaded districts, it
+is different. The conquering armies just ruined all the women they could
+get hold of. Any one will tell you that. _Ces sales Bosches!_ For it is
+inconceivable how any decent girl, even a Belgian, could give herself
+up voluntarily to a Hun! They used force, those brutes! That is the
+difference. It's all the difference in the world. No, the women over
+there didn't make fools of themselves over those men--how could they!
+No, no. Over there, in the invaded districts, the Germans forced those
+girls. Here, on this side, the girls cajoled the men till they gave in.
+Can't you see? You must be pro-German! Any way, they are all ruined and
+not fit for any decent man to mate with, after the war.
+
+They are pretty dangerous, too, some of these women. No, I don't mean in
+that way. But they act as spies for the Germans and get a lot of
+information out of the men, and send it back, somehow, into the German
+lines. The Germans stop at nothing, nothing is too dastardly, too low,
+for them to attempt. There were two Belgian girls once, who lived
+together in a room, in a little village back of our lines. They were
+natives, and had always lived there, so of course they were not turned
+out, and when the village was shelled from time to time, they did not
+seem to mind and altogether they made a lot of money. They only received
+officers. The common soldiers were just dirt to them, and they refused
+to see them. Certain women get known in a place, as those who receive
+soldiers and those who receive officers. These girls were intelligent,
+too, and always asked a lot of intelligent, interested questions, and
+you know a man when he is excited will answer unsuspectingly any
+question put to him. The Germans took advantage of that. It is easy to
+be a spy. Just know what questions you must ask, and it is surprising
+how much information you can get. The thing is, to know upon what
+point information is wanted. These girls knew that, it seems, and so
+they asked a lot of intelligent questions, and as they received only
+officers, they got a good lot of valuable information, for as I say,
+when a man is excited he will answer many questions. Besides, who could
+have suspected at first that these two girls were spies? But they were,
+as they found out finally, after several months. Their rooms were one
+day searched, and a mass of incriminating papers were discovered. It
+seems the Germans had taken these girls from their families--held their
+families as hostages--and had sent them across into the English lines,
+with threats of vile reprisals upon their families if they did not
+produce information of value. Wasn't it beastly! Making these girls
+prostitutes and spies, upon pain of reprisals upon their families. The
+Germans knew they were so attractive that they would receive only
+officers. That they would receive many clients, of high rank, of much
+information, who would readily fall victims to their wiles. They are
+very vile themselves, these Germans. The curious thing is, how well
+they understand how to bait a trap for their enemies. In spite of having
+nothing in common with them, how well they understand the nature of
+those who are fighting in the name of Justice, of Liberty and
+Civilization.
+
+    PARIS,
+4 May, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+POUR LA PATRIE
+
+
+This is how it was. It is pretty much always like this in a field
+hospital. Just ambulances rolling in, and dirty, dying men, and guns off
+there in the distance! Very monotonous, and the same, day after day,
+till one gets so tired and bored. Big things may be going on over there,
+on the other side of the captive balloons that we can see from a
+distance, but we are always here, on this side of them, and here, on
+this side of them, it is always the same. The weariness of it--the
+sameness of it! The same ambulances, and dirty men, and groans, or
+silence. The same hot operating rooms, the same beds, always full, in
+the wards. This is war. But it goes on and on, over and over, day after
+day, till it seems like life. Life in peace time. It might be life in a
+big city hospital, so alike is the routine. Only the city hospitals are
+bigger, and better equipped, and the ambulances are smarter, and the
+patients don't always come in ambulances--they walk in sometimes, or
+come in street cars, or in limousines, and they are of both sexes, men
+and women, and have ever so many things the matter with them--the
+hospitals of peace time are not nearly so stupid, so monotonous, as the
+hospitals of war. Bah! War's humane compared to peace! More spectacular,
+I grant you, more acute,--that's what interests us,--but for the sheer
+agony of life--oh, peace is way ahead!
+
+War is so clean. Peace is so dirty. There are so many foul diseases in
+peace times. They drag on over so many years, too. No, war's clean! I'd
+rather see a man die in prime of life, in war time, than see him
+doddering along in peace time, broken hearted, broken spirited, life
+broken, and very weary, having suffered many things,--to die at last, at
+a good, ripe age! How they have suffered, those who drive up to our city
+hospitals in limousines, in peace time. What's been saved them, those
+who die young, and clean and swiftly, here behind the guns. In the long
+run it dots up just the same. Only war's spectacular, that's all.
+
+Well, he came in like the rest, only older than most of them. A shock of
+iron-grey hair, a mane of it, above heavy, black brows, and the brows
+were contracted in pain. Shot, as usual, in the abdomen. He spent three
+hours on the table after admission--the operating table--and when he
+came over to the ward, they said, not a dog's chance for him. No more
+had he. When he came out of ether, he said he didn't want to die. He
+said he wanted to live. Very much. He said he wanted to see his wife
+again and his children. Over and over he insisted on this, insisted on
+getting well. He caught hold of the doctor's hand and said he must get
+well, that the doctor must get him well. Then the doctor drew away his
+slim fingers from the rough, imploring grasp, and told him to be good
+and patient.
+
+"Be good! Be patient!" said the doctor, and that was all he could say,
+for he was honest. What else could he say, knowing that there were
+eighteen little holes, cut by the bullet, leaking poison into that
+gashed, distended abdomen? When these little holes, that the doctor
+could not stop, had leaked enough poison into his system, he would die.
+Not today, no, but day after tomorrow. Three days more.
+
+So all that first day, the man talked of getting well. He was insistent
+on that. He was confident. Next day, the second of the three days the
+doctor gave him, very much pain laid hold of him. His black brows bent
+with pain and he grew puzzled. How could one live with such pain as
+that?
+
+That afternoon, about five o'clock, came the General. The one who
+decorates the men. He had no sword, just a riding whip, so he tossed the
+whip on the bed, for you can't do an accolade with anything but a sword.
+Just the _Médaille Militaire_. Not the other one. But the _Médaille
+Militaire_ carries a pension of a hundred francs a year, so that's
+something. So the General said, very briefly: "In the name of the
+Republic of France, I confer upon you the _Médaille Militaire_." Then he
+bent over and kissed the man on his forehead, pinned the medal to the
+bedspread, and departed.
+
+There you are! Just a brief little ceremony, and perfunctory. We all got
+that impression. The General has decorated so many dying men. And this
+one seemed so nearly dead. He seemed half-conscious. Yet the General
+might have put a little more feeling into it, not made it quite so
+perfunctory. Yet he's done this thing so many, many times before. It's
+all right, he does it differently when there are people about, but this
+time there was no one present--just the doctor, the dying man, and me.
+And so we four knew what it meant--just a widow's pension. Therefore
+there wasn't any reason for the accolade, for the sonorous, ringing
+phrases of a dress parade----
+
+We all knew what it meant. So did the man. When he got the medal, he
+knew too. He knew there wasn't any hope. I held the medal before him,
+after the General had gone, in its red plush case. It looked cheap,
+somehow. The exchange didn't seem even. He pushed it aside with a
+contemptuous hand sweep, a disgusted shrug.
+
+"I've seen these things before!" he exclaimed. We all had seen them too.
+We all knew about them, he and the doctor, and the General and I. He
+knew and understood, most of all. And his tone was bitter.
+
+After that, he knew the doctor couldn't save him, and that he should not
+see his wife and children again. Whereupon he became angry with the
+treatment, and protested against it. The _picqures_ hurt--they hurt very
+much, and he did not want them. Moreover, they did no good, for his pain
+was now very intense, and he tossed and tossed to get away from it.
+
+So the third day dawned, and he was alive, and dying, and knew that he
+was dying. Which is unusual and disconcerting. He turned over and over,
+and black fluid vomited from his mouth into the white enamel basin. From
+time to time, the orderly emptied the basin, but always there was more,
+and always he choked and gasped and knit his brows in pain. Once his
+face broke up as a child's breaks up when it cries. So he cried in pain
+and loneliness and resentment.
+
+He struggled hard to hold on. He wanted very much to live, but he could
+not do it. He said: "_Je ne tiens plus._"
+
+Which was true. He couldn't hold on. The pain was too great. He clenched
+his hands and writhed, and cried out for mercy. But what mercy had we?
+We gave him morphia, but it did not help. So he continued to cry to us
+for mercy, he cried to us and to God. Between us, we let him suffer
+eight hours more like that, us and God.
+
+Then I called the priest. We have three priests on the ward, as
+orderlies, and I got one of them to give him the Sacrament. I thought it
+would quiet him. We could not help him with drugs, and he had not got it
+quite in his head that he must die, and when he said, "I am dying," he
+expected to be contradicted. So I asked Capolarde to give him the
+Sacrament, and he said yes, and put a red screen around the bed, to
+screen him from the ward. Then Capolarde turned to me and asked me to
+leave. It was summer time. The window at the head of the bed was open,
+the hay outside was new cut and piled into little haycocks. Over in the
+distance the guns rolled. As I turned to go, I saw Capolarde holding a
+tray of Holy Oils in one hand, while with the other he emptied the basin
+containing black vomitus out the window.
+
+No, it did not bring him comfort, or resignation. He fought against it.
+He wanted to live, and he resented Death, very bitterly. Down at my end
+of the ward--it was a silent, summer afternoon--I heard them very
+clearly. I heard the low words from behind the screen.
+
+"_Dites:_ '_Dieu je vous donne ma vie librement pour ma patrie_'" (God, I
+give you my life freely for my country). The priests usually say that to
+them, for death has more dignity that way. It is not in the ritual, but
+it makes a soldier's death more noble. So I suppose Capolarde said it. I
+could only judge by the response. I could hear the heavy, laboured
+breath, the choking, wailing cry.
+
+"_Oui! Oui!_" gasped out at intervals. "_Ah mon Dieu! Oui!_"
+
+Again the mumbling, guiding whisper.
+
+"_Oui--oui!_" came sobbing, gasping, in response.
+
+So I heard the whispers, the priest's whispers, and the stertorous
+choke, the feeble, wailing, rebellious wailing in response. He was being
+forced into it. Forced into acceptance. Beaten into submission, beaten
+into resignation.
+
+"_Oui, oui_" came the protesting moans. "_Ah, oui!_"
+
+It must be dawning upon him now. Capolarde is making him see.
+
+"_Oui! Oui!_" The choking sobs reach me. "_Ah, mon Dieu, oui!_" Then
+very deep, panting, crying breaths:
+
+"_Dieu--je--vous--donne--ma--vie--librement--pour--ma--patrie!_"
+
+"_Librement! Librement! Ah, oui! Oui!_" He was beaten at last. The
+choking, dying, bewildered man had said the noble words.
+
+"God, I give you my life freely for my country!"
+
+After which came a volley of low toned Latin phrases, rattling in the
+stillness like the popping of a _mitrailleuse_.
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+Two hours later he was still alive, restless, but no longer resentful.
+"It is difficult to go," he murmured, and then: "Tonight, I shall sleep
+well." A long pause followed, and he opened his eyes.
+
+"Without doubt, the next world is more _chic_ than this," he remarked
+smiling, and then:
+
+"I was mobilized against my inclination. Now I have won the _Médaille
+Militaire_. My Captain won it for me. He made me brave. He had a
+revolver in his hand."
+
+
+
+
+LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA
+
+
+Just inside the entrance gates a big, flat-topped tent was pitched,
+which bore over the low door a signboard on which was painted, _Triage
+No. 1. Malades et Blessés Assis_. This meant that those _assis_, able to
+travel in the ambulances as "sitters," were to be deposited here for
+diagnosis and classification. Over beyond was the _Salle d'Attente_, the
+hut for receiving the _grands blessés_, but a tent was sufficient for
+sick men and those slightly wounded. It was an old tent, weatherbeaten,
+a dull, dirty grey. Within the floor was of earth, and along each side
+ran long, narrow, backless benches, on which the sick men and the
+slightly wounded sat, waiting sorting. A grey twilight pervaded the
+interior, and the everlasting Belgian rain beat down upon the creaking
+canvas, beat down in gentle, dripping patters, or in hard, noisy gusts,
+as it happened. It was always dry inside, however, and the earth floor
+was dusty, except at the entrance, where a triangle of mud projected
+almost to the doctor's table, in the middle.
+
+The _Salle d'Attente_ was different. It was more comfortable. The
+seriously wounded were unloaded carefully and placed upon beds covered
+with rubber sheeting, and clean sacking, which protected the thin
+mattresses from blood. The patients were afterwards covered with red
+blankets, and stone hot water bottles were also given them, sometimes.
+But in the sorting tent there were no such comforts. They were not
+needed. The sick men and the slightly wounded could sit very well on the
+backless benches till the _Médecin Major_ had time to come and examine
+them.
+
+Quite a company of "sitters" were assembled here one morning, helped out
+of two big ambulances that drove in within ten minutes of each other.
+They were a dejected lot, and they stumbled into the tent unsteadily,
+groping towards the benches, upon which they tried to pose their weary,
+old, fevered bodies in comfortable attitudes. And as it couldn't be
+done, there was a continual shifting movement, and unrest. Heavy legs in
+heavy wet boots were shoved stiffly forward, then dragged back again.
+Old, thin bodies bent forward, twisted sideways, coarse, filthy hands
+hung supine between spread knees, and then again the hands would change,
+and support whiskered, discouraged faces. They were all uncouth,
+grotesque, dejected, and they smelt abominably, these _poilus_, these
+hairy, unkempt soldiers. At their feet, their sacks lay, bulging with
+their few possessions. They hadn't much, but all they had lay there, at
+their feet. Old brown canvas sacks, bulging, muddy, worn, worn-out, like
+their owners. Tied on the outside were water cans, and extra boots, and
+bayonets, and inside were socks and writing paper and photographs of
+ugly wives. Therefore the ungainly sacks were precious, and they hugged
+them with their tired feet, afraid that they might lose them.
+
+Then finally the _Major_ arrived, and began the business of sorting
+them. He was brisk and alert, and he called them one by one to stand
+before him. They shuffled up to his little table, wavering, deprecating,
+humble, and answered his brief impatient questions. And on the spot he
+made snap diagnoses, such as rheumatism, bronchitis, kicked by a horse,
+knocked down by despatch rider, dysentery, and so on--a paltry, stupid
+lot of ailments and minor accidents, demanding a few days' treatment. It
+was a dull service, this medical service, yet one had to be always on
+guard against contagion, so the service was a responsible one. But the
+_Major_ worked quickly, sorted them out hastily, and then one by one
+they disappeared behind a hanging sheet, where the orderlies took off
+their old uniforms, washed the patients a little, and then led them to
+the wards. It was a stupid service! So different from that of the
+_grands blessés_! There was some interest in that! But this _éclopé_
+business, these minor ailments, this stream of petty sickness, petty
+accidents, dirty skin diseases, and vermin--all war, if you like, but
+how _banale_!
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+Later, in the medical wards, the _Major_ made his rounds, to inspect
+more carefully the men upon whom he had made snap diagnoses, to correct
+the diagnosis, if need be, and to order treatment. The chief treatment
+they needed was a bath, a clean bed, and a week of sleep, but the
+doctor, being fairly conscientious, thought to hurry things a little,
+to hasten the return of these old, tired men to the trenches, so that
+they might come back to the hospital again as _grands blessés_. In which
+event they would be interesting. So he ordered _ventouses_ or cupping,
+for the bronchitis cases. There is much bronchitis in Flanders, in the
+trenches, because of the incessant Belgian rain. They are sick with it
+too, poor devils. So said the _Major_ to himself as he made his rounds.
+
+Five men here, lying in a row, all ptomaine poisoning, due to some rank
+tinned stuff they'd been eating. Yonder there, three men with
+itch--filthy business! Their hands all covered with it, tearing at their
+bodies with their black, claw-like nails! The orderlies had not washed
+them very thoroughly--small blame to them! So the _Major_ made his
+rounds, walking slowly, very bored, but conscientious. These dull wrecks
+were needed in the trenches. He must make them well.
+
+At Bed 9, André stopped. Something different this time? He tried to
+recall it. Oh yes--in the sorting tent he'd noticed----
+
+"_Monsieur Major!_" A thin hand, clean and slim, rose to the salute. The
+bed covers were very straight, sliding neither to this side nor to that,
+as covers slide under restless pain.
+
+"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_."
+
+So André stopped, attentive. The man continued.
+
+"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_. Because of that, from the trenches I
+was removed a month ago. After that I was given a _fourgon_, a wagon in
+which to transport the loaves of bread. But soon it arrived that I could
+not climb to the high seat of my wagon, nor could I mount to the saddle
+of my horse. So I was obliged to lead my horses, stumbling at their
+bridles. So I have stumbled for the past four weeks. But now I cannot
+even do that. It is very painful."
+
+André passed a hand over his short, thick, upright hair, and smoothed
+his stiff brush reflectively. Then he put questions to the man,
+confidentially, and at the answers continued to rub backward his tight
+brush of hair. After which he disappeared from the ward for a time, but
+returned presently, bringing with him a Paris surgeon who happened to be
+visiting the Front that day. There also came with him another little
+doctor of the hospital staff, who was interested in what André had told
+him of the case. The three stood together at the foot of the bed,
+stroking their beards and their hair meditatively, while they plied the
+patient with questions. After which they directed Alphonse, the swarthy,
+dark orderly, who looked like a brigand, and Henri, the priest-orderly,
+to help the patient to rise.
+
+They stood him barefoot upon the floor, supporting him slightly by each
+elbow. To his knees, or just above them, fell a scant, gay, pink
+flannel nightshirt, his sole garment. It was one of many warm, gay
+nightshirts, pink and cheerful, that some women of America had sent over
+to the wounded heroes of France. It made a bright spot of colour in the
+sombre ward, and through the open window, one caught glimpses of green
+hop fields, and a windmill in the distance, waving its slow arms.
+
+"Walk," commanded André. "Walk to the door. Turn and return."
+
+The man staggered between the beds, holding to them, half bent over,
+fearful. Cool summer air blew in through the window, waving the pink
+nightshirt, making goose flesh rise on the shapely white legs that
+wavered. Then he moved down the ward, between the rows of beds, moving
+with uncertain, running, halting steps. Upon the linoleum, his bare feet
+flapped in soft thumps, groping wildly, interfering, knocking against
+each other. The man, trying to control them, gazed in fright from side
+to side. Down to the door he padded, rocked, swayed, turned and almost
+fell. Then back again he flapped.
+
+Dense stillness in the ward, broken only by the hard, unsteady thumping
+of the bare feet. The feet masterless, as the spirit had been
+masterless, years ago. The three judges in white blouses stood with arms
+folded, motionless. The patients in the beds sat up and tittered. The
+man who had been kicked by a horse raised himself and smiled. He who had
+been knocked down by a despatch rider sat up, as did those with
+bronchitis, and those with ptomaine poisoning. They sat up, looked, and
+sniggered. They knew. So did André. So did the Paris surgeon, and the
+little staff doctor, and the swarthy orderly and the priest-orderly.
+They all knew. The patient knew too. The laughter of his comrades told
+him.
+
+So he was to be released from the army, physically unfit. He could no
+longer serve his country. For many months he had faced death under the
+guns, a glorious death. Now he was to face death in another form. Not
+glorious, shameful. Only he didn't know much about it, and couldn't
+visualize it--after all, he might possibly escape. He who had so loved
+life. So he was rather pleased to be released from service.
+
+The patients in the surrounding beds ceased laughing. They had other
+things to think about. As soon as they were cured of the dysentery and
+of the itch, they were going back again to the trenches, under the guns.
+So they pitied themselves, and they rather envied him, being released
+from the army. They didn't know much about it, either. They couldn't
+visualize an imbecile, degrading, lingering death. They could only
+comprehend escape from sudden death, under the guns.
+
+One way or another, it is about the same. Tragedy either way, and death
+either way. But the tragedies of peace equal the tragedies of war. The
+sum total of suffering is the same. They balance up pretty well.
+
+    PARIS,
+18 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+A SURGICAL TRIUMPH
+
+
+In the Latin Quarter, somewhere about the intersection of the Boulevard
+Montparnasse with the rue de Rennes--it might have been even a little
+way back of the Gare Montparnasse, or perhaps in the other direction
+where the rue Vabin cuts into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs--any one who
+knows the Quarter will know about it at once--there lived a little
+hairdresser by the name of Antoine. Some ten years ago Antoine had moved
+over from Montmartre, for he was a good hairdresser and a thrifty soul,
+and he wanted to get on in life, and at that time nothing seemed to him
+so profitable an investment as to set up a shop in the neighbourhood
+patronized by Americans. American students were always wanting their
+hair washed, so he was told--once a week at least--and in that they
+differed from the Russian and Polish and Roumanian and other students of
+Paris, a fact which determined Antoine to go into business at the
+Montparnasse end of the Quarter, rather than at the lower end, say round
+the Pantheon and Saint-Etienne-du-Mont. And as he determined to put his
+prices low, in order to catch the trade, so later on when his business
+thrived enormously, he continued to keep them low, in order to maintain
+his clients. For if you once get used to having your hair washed for two
+francs, and very well done at that, it is annoying to find that the
+price has gone up over night to the prices one pays on the Boulevard
+Capucines. Therefore for ten years Antoine continued to wash hair at two
+francs a head, and at the same time he earned quite a reputation for
+himself as a marvellous good person when it came to waves and curls. So
+that when the war broke out, and his American clients broke and ran, he
+had a neat, tidy sum saved up, and could be fairly complacent about it
+all. Moreover, he was a lame man, one leg being some three inches
+shorter than the other, due to an accident in childhood, so he had never
+done his military service in his youth, and while not over military age,
+even yet, there was no likelihood of his ever being called upon to do
+it. So he stood in the doorway of his deserted shop, for all his young
+assistants, his curlers and shampooers, had been mobilized, and looked
+up and down the deserted street, and congratulated himself that he was
+not in as bad a plight, financially and otherwise, as some of his
+neighbours.
+
+Next door to him was a restaurant where the students ate, many of them.
+It had enjoyed a high reputation for cheapness, up to the war, and twice
+a day had been thronged with a mixed crowd of sculptors and painters
+and writers, and just dilettantes, which latter liked to patronize it
+for what they were pleased to call "local colour." Well, look at it now,
+thought the thrifty Antoine. Everyone gone, except a dozen stranded
+students who had not money enough to escape, and who, in the kindness of
+their hearts, continued to eat here "on credit," in order to keep the
+proprietor going. Even such a fool as the proprietor must see, sooner or
+later, that patronage of this sort could lead nowhere, from the point of
+view of profits--in fact, it was ridiculous.
+
+Antoine, lounging in his doorway, thought of his son. His only son, who,
+thank God, was too young to enter the army. By the time he was old
+enough for his military service, the war would all be over--it could not
+last, at the outside, more than six weeks or a couple of months--so
+Antoine had no cause for anxiety on that account. The lad was a fine,
+husky youth, with a sprouting moustache, which made him look older than
+his seventeen years. He was being taught the art of washing hair, and of
+curling and dyeing the same, on the human head or aside from it, as the
+case might be, and he could snap curling irons with a click to inspire
+confidence in the minds of the most fastidious, so altogether, thought
+Antoine, he had a good future before him. So the war had no terrors for
+Antoine, and he was able to speculate freely upon the future of his son,
+which seemed like a very bright, admirable future indeed, in spite of
+the disturbances of the moment. Nor did he need to close the doors of
+his establishment either, in spite of the loss of his assistants, and
+the loss of his many customers who kept those assistants as well as
+himself busy. For there still remained in Paris a good many American
+heads to be washed, from time to time--rather foolhardy, adventurous
+heads, curious, sensation hunting heads, who had remained in Paris to
+see the war, or as much of it as they could, in order to enrich their
+own personal experience. With which point of view Antoine had no
+quarrel, although there were certain of his countrymen who wished these
+inquisitive foreigners would return to their native land, for a variety
+of reasons.
+
+As the months rolled along, however, he who had been so farseeing, so
+thrifty a business man, seemed to have made a mistake. His calculations
+as to the duration of the war all went wrong. It seemed to be lasting an
+unconscionable time, and every day it seemed to present new phases for
+which no immediate settlement offered itself. Thus a year dragged away,
+and Antoine's son turned eighteen, and his moustache grew to be so
+imposing that his father commanded him to shave it. At the end of
+another two months, Antoine found it best to return his son to short
+trousers, for although the boy was stout and fat, he was not tall, and
+in short trousers he looked merely an overgrown fat boy, and Antoine
+was growing rather worried as he saw the lads of the young classes
+called to the colours. Somewhere, in one of the _Mairies_ of Paris--over
+at Montmartre, perhaps, where he had come from, or at the _Préfecture de
+Police_, or the _Cité_--Antoine knew that there a record of his son's
+age and attainments, which might be used against him at any moment, and
+as the weeks grew into months, it seemed certain that the class to which
+this precious son belonged would be called on for military service. Then
+very hideous weeks followed for Antoine, weeks of nervous suspense and
+dread. Day by day, as the lad grew in proficiency and aptitude, as he
+became more and more expert in the matters of his trade, as he learned a
+delicate, sure touch with the most refractory hair, and could expend the
+minimum of gas on the drying machine, and the minimum of soap lather,
+and withal attain the best results in pleasing his customers, so grew
+the danger of his being snatched away from this wide life spread out
+before him, of being forced to fight for his glorious country. Poor fat
+boy! On Sundays he used to parade the Raspail with a German shepherd dog
+at his heels--bought two years ago as a German shepherd, but now called
+a Belgian Police dog--how could he lay aside his little trousers and
+become a soldier of France! Yet every day that time drew nearer, till
+finally one day the summons came, and the lad departed, and Antoine
+closed his shutters for a whole week, mourning desperately. And he was
+furious against England, which had not made her maximum effort, had not
+mobilized her men, had continued with business as usual, had made no
+attempt to end the war--wouldn't do so, until France had become
+exhausted. And he was furious against Russia, swamped in a bog of
+political intrigue, which lacked organization and munitions and
+leadership, and was totally unable to drawing off the Bosches on the
+other frontier, and delivering a blow to smash them. In fact, Antoine
+was far more furious against the Allies of France than against Germany
+itself. And his rage and grief absolutely overbalanced his pride in his
+son, or his ambitions as to his son's possible achievements. The boy
+himself did not mind going, when he was called, for he was something of
+a fatalist, being so young, and besides, he could not foresee things.
+But Antoine, little lame man, had much imagination and foresaw a great
+deal.
+
+Mercifully, he could not foresee what actually happened. Thus it was a
+shock to him. He learned that his son was wounded, and then followed
+many long weeks while the boy lay in hospital, during which time many
+kind-hearted Red Cross ladies wrote to Antoine, telling him to be of
+brave heart and of good courage. And Antoine, being a rich man, in a
+small hairdressing way, took quite large sums of money out of the bank
+from time to time, and sent them to the Red Cross ladies, to buy for his
+son whatever might be necessary to his recovery. He heard from the
+hospital in the interior--for they were taking most of the wounded to
+the interior, at that time, for fear of upsetting Paris by the sight of
+them in the streets--that artificial legs were costly. Thus he steeled
+himself to the fact that his son would be more hideously lame than he
+himself. There was some further consultation about artificial arms,
+rather vague, but Antoine was troubled. Then he learned that a
+marvellous operation had been performed upon the boy, known as plastic
+surgery, that is to say, the rebuilding, out of other parts of the body,
+of certain features of the face that are missing. All this while he
+heard nothing directly from the lad himself, and in every letter from
+the Red Cross ladies, dictated to them, the boy begged that neither his
+father nor his mother would make any attempt to visit him at the
+hospital, in the interior, till he was ready.
+
+Finally, the lad was "ready." He had been four or five months in
+hospital, and the best surgeons of the country had done for him the best
+they knew. They had not only saved his life, but, thanks to his father's
+money, he had been fitted out with certain artificial aids to the human
+body which would go far towards making life supportable. In fact, they
+expressed themselves as extremely gratified with what they had been able
+to do for the poor young man, nay, they were even proud of him. He was a
+surgical triumph, and as such they were returning him to Paris, by such
+and such a train, upon such and such a day. Antoine went to meet the
+train.
+
+In a little room back of the hairdressing shop, Antoine looked down upon
+the surgical triumph. This triumph was his son. The two were pretty
+well mixed up. A passion of love and a passion of furious resentment
+filled the breast of the little hairdresser. Two very expensive, very
+good artificial legs lay on the sofa beside the boy. They were nicely
+jointed and had cost several hundred francs. From the same firm it would
+also be possible to obtain two very nice artificial arms, light, easily
+adjustable, well hinged. A hideous flabby heap, called a nose, fashioned
+by unique skill out of the flesh of his breast, replaced the little snub
+nose that Antoine remembered. The mouth they had done little with. All
+the front teeth were gone, but these could doubtless be replaced, in
+time, by others. Across the lad's forehead was a black silk bandage,
+which could be removed later, and in his pocket there was an address
+from which artificial eyes might be purchased. They would have fitted
+him out with eyes, in the provinces, except that such were better
+obtainable in Paris. Antoine looked down upon this wreck of his son that
+lay before him, and the wreck, not appreciating that he was a surgical
+triumph, kept sobbing, kept weeping out of his sightless eyes, kept
+jerking his four stumps in supplication, kept begging in agony:
+
+"Kill me, Papa!"
+
+However, Antoine couldn't do this, for he was civilized.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE TELEPHONE
+
+
+As he hadn't died in the ambulance, coming from the _Poste de Secours_,
+the surgeons concluded that they would give him another chance, and risk
+it on the operating table. He was nearly dead, anyway, so it didn't much
+matter, although the chance they proposed to give him wasn't even a
+fighting chance--it was just one in a thousand, some of them put it at
+one in ten thousand. Accordingly, they cut his clothes off in the _Salle
+d'Attente_, and carried him, very dirty and naked, to the operating
+room. Here they found that his ten-thousandth chance would be diminished
+if they gave him a general anæsthetic, so they dispensed with chloroform
+and gave him spinal anæsthesia, by injecting something into his spinal
+canal, between two of the low vertebræ. This completely relieved him of
+pain, but made him talkative, and when they saw he was conscious like
+that, it was decided to hold a sheet across the middle of him, so that
+he could not see what was going on, on the other side of the sheet,
+below his waist.
+
+The temperature in the operating room was stifling hot, and the sweat
+poured in drops from the brows of the surgeons, so that it took an
+orderly, with a piece of gauze, to swab them constantly. However, for
+all the heat, the man was stone cold and ashen grey, and his nostrils
+were pinched and dilated, while his breath came in gasps, forty to the
+minute. Yet, as I say, he was talkative, and his stream of little, vapid
+remarks, at his end of the sheet, did much to drown the clicking and
+snapping of clamps on the other side of it, where the surgeons were
+working to give him his one chance.
+
+A nurse held the sheet on one side of the table, and a priest-orderly
+held it at the other, and at his head stood a doctor, and the
+_Directrice_ and another nurse, answering the string of vapid remarks
+and trying to sooth him. And three feet farther along, hidden from him
+and the little clustering company of people trying to distract his
+attention, stood the two surgeons, and the two young students, and just
+the tops of their hair could be seen over the edge of the sheet. They
+whispered a little from time to time, and worked very rapidly, and there
+was quite animated talking when the bone saw began to rasp.
+
+The man babbled of his home, and of his wife. He said he wanted to see
+her again, very much. And the priest-orderly, who wanted to drop his end
+of the sheet and administer the last Sacrament at once, grew very
+nervous and uneasy. So the man rambled on, gasping, and they replied to
+him in soothing manner, and told him that there was a chance that he
+might see her again. So he talked about her incessantly, and with
+affection, and his whispered words and the cheery replies quite drowned
+out the clicking and the snapping of the clamps. After a short while,
+however, his remarks grew less coherent, and he seemed to find himself
+back in the trenches, telephoning. He tried hard to telephone, he tried
+hard to get the connection. The wires seemed to be cut, however, and he
+grew puzzled, and knit his brows and swore, and tried again and again,
+over and over. He had something to say over the telephone, the trench
+communication wire, and his mind wandered, and he tried very hard, in
+his wandering mind, to get the connection. A shell had cut the line
+evidently. He grew annoyed and restless, and gazed anxiously and
+perplexedly at the white sheet, held so steadily across his middle.
+From the waist down he could not move, so all his restlessness took
+place on the upper side of the sheet, and he was unaware of what was
+going on on the other side of it, and so failed to hear the incessant
+rattle of clamps and the subdued whispers from the other side.
+
+He struggled hard to get the connection, in his mind, over the
+telephone. The wires seemed to be cut, and he cried out in anxiety and
+distress. Then he grew more and more feeble, and gasped more and more,
+and became almost inarticulate, in his efforts. He was distressed. But
+suddenly he got it. He screamed out very loud, relieved, satisfied,
+triumphant, startling them all.
+
+"_Ça y est, maintenant! Ça y est! C'est le bon Dieu à l'appareil_!" (All
+right now! All right! It is the good God at the telephone!)
+
+A drop of blood spotted the sheet, a sudden vivid drop which spread
+rapidly, coming through. The surgeon raised himself.
+
+"Finished here!" he exclaimed with satisfaction.
+
+"Finished here," repeated the _Directrice_.
+
+    PARIS,
+26 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+A CITATION
+
+
+As a person, Grammont amounted to very little. In private life, before
+the war broke out, he had been an acrobat in the streets of Paris, and
+after that he became a hotel boy in some little fifth-rate hotel over
+behind the Gare St. Lazare. That had proved his undoing, for even the
+fifth-rate French travelling salesmen and sharpers and adventurers who
+patronized the hotel had money enough for him to steal. He stole a
+little, favoured by his position as _garçon d'hôtel_, and the theft had
+landed him, not in jail, but in the _Bataillon d'Afrique_. He had served
+in that for two years, doing his military service in the _Bataillon
+d'Afrique_ instead of jail, while working off his five year sentence,
+and then war being declared, his regiment was transferred from Morocco
+to France, to Flanders, to the front line trenches, and in course of
+time he arrived one day at the hospital with a piece of shell in his
+spleen.
+
+He was pretty ill when brought in, and if he had died promptly, as he
+should have done, it would have been better. But it happened at that
+time that there was a surgeon connected with the hospital who was bent
+on making a reputation for himself, and this consisted in trying to
+prolong the lives of wounded men who ought normally and naturally to
+have died. So this surgeon worked hard to save Grammont, and certainly
+succeeded in prolonging his life, and in prolonging his suffering, over
+a very considerable portion of time. He worked hard over him, and he
+used on him everything he could think of, everything that money could
+buy. Every time he had a new idea as to treatment, no matter how costly
+it might be, he mentioned it to the _Directrice_, who sent to Paris and
+got it. All the while Grammont remained in bed, in very great agony, the
+surgeon making copious notes on the case, noting that under such and
+such circumstances, under conditions such as the following, such and
+such remedies and treatment proved futile and valueless. Grammont had a
+hole in his abdomen, when he entered, about an inch long. After about a
+month, this hole was scientifically increased to a foot in length,
+rubber drains stuck out in all directions, and went inwards as well,
+pretty deep, and his pain was enhanced a hundredfold, while his chances
+of recovery were not bright. But Grammont had a good constitution, and
+the surgeon worked hard over him, for if he got well, it would be a
+wonderful case, and the surgeon's reputation would benefit. Grammont
+bore it all very patiently, and did not ask to be allowed to die, as
+many of them did, for since he was of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, such a
+request would be equivalent to asking for a remission of sentence--a
+sentence which the courts averred he justly deserved and merited. They
+took no account of the fact that his ethics were those of a wandering
+juggler, turning somersaults on a carpet at the public _fêtes_ of Paris,
+and had been polished off by contact with the men and women he had
+encountered in his capacity of _garçon d'hôtel_, in a fifth-rate hotel
+near Montmartre. On the contrary, they rather expected of him the
+decencies and moralities that come from careful nurture, and these not
+being forthcoming, they had sent him to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, where
+his eccentricities would be of no danger to the public.
+
+So Grammont continued to suffer, over a period of several long months,
+and he was sufficiently cynical, owing to his short experience of life,
+to realize that the surgeon, who worked over him so constantly and
+solicitously, was not solely and entirely disinterested in his efforts
+to make him well. Grammont had no life to return to, that was the
+trouble. Everyone knew it. The surgeon knew it, and the orderlies knew
+it, and his comrades in the adjoining beds knew it--he had absolutely no
+future before him, and there was not much sense in trying to make him
+well enough to return to Paris, a hopeless cripple. He lay in hospital
+for several months, suffering greatly, but greatly patient. During that
+time, he received no letters, for there was no one to write to him. He
+was an _apache_, he belonged to a criminal regiment, and he had no
+family anyhow, and his few friends, tattooed all over the body like
+himself, were also members of the same regiment, and as such, unable to
+do much for him in civil life after the war. Such it is to be a
+_joyeux_, to belong to a regiment of criminals, and to have no family to
+speak of.
+
+Grammont knew that it would be better for him to die, but he did not
+like to protest against this painful prolonging of his life. He was
+pretty well sick of life, but he had to submit to the kind treatment
+meted out to him, to twist his mouth into a wry smile when the
+_Directrice_ asked him each day if he was not better, and to accept
+without wincing all the newest devices that the surgeon discovered for
+him. There was some sense in saving other people's lives, but there was
+no sense in saving his. But the surgeon, who was working for a
+reputation, worked hand in hand with the _Directrice_ who wanted her
+hospital to make a reputation for saving the lives of the _grands
+blessés_. Grammont was the victim of circumstances, as usual, but it was
+all in his understanding of life, this being caught up in the ambitions
+of others, so he had to submit.
+
+After about three months of torture, during which time he grew weaker
+and smelled worse every day, it finally dawned on the nurse that
+perhaps this life-saving business was not wholly desirable. If he got
+"well," in the mildest acceptation of the term, he would be pretty well
+disabled, and useless and good for nothing. And if he was never going to
+get well, for which the prospects seemed bright enough, why force him
+along through more weeks of suffering, just to try out new remedies?
+Society did not want him, and he had no place in it. Besides, he had
+done his share, in the trenches, in protecting its best traditions.
+
+Then they all began to notice, suddenly, that in bed Grammont was
+displaying rather nice qualities, such as you would not expect from a
+_joyeux_, a social outcast. He appeared to be extremely patient, and
+while his face twisted up into knots of pain, most of the time, he did
+not cry out and disturb the ward as he might have done. This was nice
+and considerate, and other good traits were discovered too. He was not a
+nuisance, he was not exacting, he did not demand unreasonable things,
+or refuse to submit to unreasonable things, when these were demanded of
+him. In fact, he seemed to accept his pain as God-given, and with a
+fatalism which in some ways was rather admirable. He could not help
+smelling like that, for he was full of rubber drains and of gauze
+drains, and if the doctor was too busy to dress his wounds that day, and
+so put him off till the next, it was not his fault for smelling so
+vilely. He did not raise any disturbance, nor make any complaint, on
+certain days when he seemed to be neglected. Any extra discomfort that
+he was obliged to bear, he bore stoically. Altogether, after some four
+months of this, it was discovered that Grammont had rather a remarkable
+character, a character which merited some sort of recognition. He seemed
+to have rather heroic qualities of endurance, of bravery, of discipline.
+Nor were they the heroic qualities that suddenly develop in a moment of
+exaltation, but on the contrary, they were developed by months of
+extreme agony, of extreme bodily pain. He could have been so
+disagreeable, had he chosen. And as he cared so little to have his life
+saved, his goodness could not have been due to that. It seemed that he
+was merely very decent, very considerate of others, and wanted to give
+as little trouble as he could, no matter what took place. Only he got
+thinner and weaker, and more and more gentle, and at last after five
+months of this, the _Directrice_ was touched by his conduct and
+suggested that here was a case of heroism as well worthy of the _Croix
+de Guerre_ as were the more spectacular movements on the battlefield. It
+took a few weeks longer, of gentle suggestion on her part, to convey
+this impression to the General, but at last the General entered into
+correspondence with the officers of the regiment to which Grammont
+belonged, and it then transpired that as a soldier Grammont had
+displayed the same qualities of consideration for others and of
+discipline, that he was now displaying in a hospital bed. Finally one
+day, the news came that Grammont was to be decorated. Everyone else in
+the ward, who deserved it, had been decorated long ago, naturally, for
+they had not belonged to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_. Their services had
+been recognized long ago. Now, however, after these many months of
+suffering, Grammont was to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He was nearly
+dead by this time. When told the news, he smiled faintly. He did not
+seem to care. It seemed to make very little impression upon him. Yet it
+should have made an impression, for he was a convicted criminal, and it
+was a condescension that he should be so honoured at all. He had somehow
+won this honour, this token of forgiveness, by suffering so long, so
+uncomplainingly. However, a long delay took place, although finally his
+papers came, his citation, in which he was cited in the orders of the
+regiment as having done a very brave deed, under fire. He smiled a
+little at that. It had taken place so long ago, this time when he had
+done the deed, received the wound that kept him suffering so long. It
+seemed so little worth while to acknowledge it now, after all these
+months, when he was just ready to leave.
+
+Then more delay took place, and Grammont got weaker, and the orderlies
+said among themselves that if the General was ever going to decorate
+this man, that he had better hurry up. However, so long a time had
+passed that it did not much matter. Grammont was pleased with his
+citation. It seemed to make it all right for him, somehow. It seemed to
+give him standing among his fellow patients. The hideous tattoo marks on
+his arms and legs, chest and back, which proclaimed him an _apache_,
+which showed him such every time his wound was dressed, were about to
+be overlaid with a decoration for bravery upon the field of battle. But
+still the General did not come. Grammont grew very weak and feeble and
+his patience became exhausted. He held on as long as he could. So he
+died finally, after a long pull, just twenty minutes before the General
+arrived with his medals.
+
+    PARIS,
+27 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+AN INCIDENT
+
+
+At the intersection of the rue du Bac and the Boulevard St. Germain
+rises the statue of Claude Chappe, rising like a rock in the midst of
+the stream of traffic, and like a rock splitting the stream and
+diverting it into currents which flow east and west, north and south,
+smoothly and without collision. In guiding the stream of traffic and
+directing its orderly flow, the statue of Claude Chappe is greatly
+assisted by the presence of an _agent de police_, with a picturesque
+cape and a picturesque sword, and who controls the flow of vehicles with
+as much precision as a London policeman, although there are those who
+profess that a London policeman is the only one who understands the
+business. Before the war, when the omnibuses ran, the _agent de police_
+was always on duty; since the war, when the Paris omnibuses are all at
+the Front, carrying meat to the soldiers, there are certain times during
+the day when the whole responsibility for traffic regulation falls upon
+the statue of Claude Chappe. It was at one of these times, when Claude
+Chappe was standing head in air as usual, and failed to regard the
+comings and goings of the street, that this incident occurred.
+
+Down on the Quai, an officer of the French army stepped into a little
+victoria, a shabby little _voiture de place_, which trotted him up the
+rue du Bac and then essayed to take him along the Boulevard St. Germain
+to the _Ministère de la Guerre_. Coming along the boulevard in the
+opposite direction, was a little lad of fifteen, bending low over the
+handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon, the box of which contained
+enough kilos to have taxed a strong man or an old horse. Men are scarce
+in Paris, however, and the little delivery boy, who could not possibly
+have been available for the army for another three years, was doing a
+man's work, or a horse's work, as you please. The French are a thrifty
+race, and the possibilities being that the war will all be over before
+that time, it mattered little whether this particular boy developed a
+hernia, or tuberculosis, or any other malady which might unfit him for
+future military service. At present he was earning money for his
+_patron_, which was all that really mattered. So the little boy on the
+tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the horse of the shabby victoria,
+conveying the French officer, and the _agent de police_ was absent, and
+the statue of Claude Chappe stood, as usual, head in air.
+
+Quite a _mêlée_ ensued. The old horse, which should long ago have been
+in a butcher's shop, avoided the tricycle, with true French thrift, but
+stepped squarely upon the face of the little boy sprawling under its
+hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the fingers of the lad's right
+hand. War itself could not have been more disastrous. The youth rose to
+his feet, screaming. The cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the
+officer in the little carriage leaned back and twirled the ends of his
+neat moustache. The _agent de police_, who should have been on duty at
+the statue, arrived hastily from a nearby café. He always took two hours
+off for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he was obliged on this
+occasion to cut his lunch hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone was
+frightfully annoyed, but no one was more annoyed than the officer in the
+cab, on his way to the Minister of War.
+
+He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat imperturbable, one arm lying
+negligently along the back of the seat, the fingers of the other hand
+caressing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes
+rolled upwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which was not, at that
+moment, flying over Paris. The cabby got down from his seat, and with
+much vociferation called upon the officer to witness that it was not his
+fault. The crowd, who had not witnessed the accident, crowded round the
+policeman, giving testimony to what they had not seen. The sobbing boy
+was led into a chemist's. Still the people did not disperse. They
+pressed round the cab, and began shouting to the disinterested officer.
+The officer who cared not where the old horse had stepped. The officer
+who continued to loll back against the shabby cushions, to look upward
+at the sky, to remain indifferent to the taximeter, which skipped
+briskly from eighty-five centimes to ninety-five centimes, and continued
+ticking on. Women crowded round the cab, regarding its occupant. Was
+this one who commanded their sons at the Front, who had therefore seen
+so much, been through so much, that the sight of a little boy stamped
+on meant nothing to him? Had he seen so much suffering _en gros_ that it
+meant nothing to him _en detail_? Or was this his attitude to all
+suffering? Was this the Nation's attitude to the suffering of their
+sons? Or was this officer one who had never been to the Front, an
+_embusqué_, one of the protected ones, who occupied soft snaps in the
+rear, safe places from which to draw their pay? The crowd increased
+every minute. They speculated volubly. They surrounded the cab, voicing
+their speculations. They finally became so unbearable that the officer's
+boredom vanished. His annoyance became such, his impatience at the delay
+became such that he slid down from the shabby cushions, and without
+paying his fare, disappeared in the direction of the _Ministère de la
+Guerre_.
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                      _A Selection from the
+                          Catalogue of_
+
+                       G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
+
+
+                     Complete Catalogue sent
+                         on application
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                        The Night Cometh
+
+                              By
+
+                          Paul Bourget
+
+                   Translated by Frederic Lees
+
+                         _12°. $1.35_
+
+
+Perhaps the most important work of imagination yet written under the
+influence of the war. A French military hospital is the scene of the
+story, and its chief characters are a famous Paris surgeon and a young
+wounded officer, whose fervent Catholic piety is in sharp contrast with
+the doctor's philosophic materialism. Death threatens both, and their
+opposing theories with regard to it are displayed in their relation to
+a drama of the most intense human passion.
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
+
+               New York                     London
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                             Halt!
+                          Who's There?
+
+                        By the Author of
+                    "Aunt Sarah and the War"
+
+               _75 cents net. Postage additional_
+
+
+A volume comparable to _Aunt Sarah and the War_ from the pen of the
+author of that book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the cases
+recorded are those of men who, though wounded in body, are spiritually
+whole. It is the ideals of England,--the essential England that, when
+the hour strikes, is all courage--that manifest themselves throughout.
+And be it said that it is an epitome not only of the spirit of England
+but of the United Kingdom, with the emphasis on the united. There is a
+fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy running through the book, and
+much of poignancy in the personal dramas glimpsed through its pages.
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
+
+               New York                     London
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                          A TALL SHIP
+                    ON OTHER NAVAL OCCASIONS
+
+                          BY BARTIMEUS
+
+                  _12°. PICTURE WRAPPER. $1.00_
+
+
+Tales descriptive of life in the British Navy under stress of war-time
+conditions--the life of the officers' mess, and the stoke-hole--the
+grime as well as the glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of parting, of
+the strain of long waiting for the enemy, of sinking ships and struggles
+in the waves--and also of the bright side that not even war can
+extinguish.
+
+
+                       G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
+
+               NEW YORK                     LONDON
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                            News from
+                            Somewhere
+
+                               By
+
+                           James Milne
+
+           Author of "The Romance of a Pro-Consul," etc.
+
+                  _12°. $1.50 net. Frontispiece_
+
+
+"Many things seen, heard, and thought during travels at home, on sea and
+oversea, in the war-time which we call 'Armageddon.' It is a chronicle
+of war impressions gathered during travel, near and far, on its edges
+red and jagged."
+
+"This indeed is a book of the war but it is not like the others. There
+is in it nothing that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must be in
+nearly every other volume that is wrought about Armageddon. There is
+sadness in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is an immensity of
+pathos. There is much that is beautiful. And all of it is true."--_The
+Daily Telegraph._
+
+"Great in spirit ... a book that will surely outlive the war."--_The
+Graphic._
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Backwash of War
+       The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield as Witnessed by an
+              American Hospital Nurse
+
+Author: Ellen N. La Motte
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2008 [EBook #26884]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BACKWASH OF WAR ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Meredith Bach, René Anderson Benitz and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+(This file was produced from images generously made
+available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="tranotes">
+<p>Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation and spelling have been
+retained as in the original. Minor printer errors have been amended
+without note. Missing page numbers between chapters denote blank or
+duplicate chapter heading pages in the original text.</p></div>
+
+<p><br /><br /></p>
+
+<h3><i>By Ellen N. La Motte</i></h3>
+
+<h4>The Tuberculosis Nurse<br />
+The Backwash of War</h4>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr />
+<h1>The<br />Backwash of War<br /></h1>
+
+<h3>The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield<br />
+as Witnessed by an American<br />
+Hospital Nurse<br /></h3>
+
+<h3><br />By</h3>
+<h2>Ellen N. La Motte</h2>
+
+<div class="figcenter"><br />
+<img src="images/image01.jpg" width="20" height="20" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<h4><br />G. P. Putnam&rsquo;s Sons<br />
+New York and London<br /></h4>
+<div class="figcenter">
+<img src="images/image02.jpg" width="220" height="17" alt="The Knickerbocker Press" title="" />
+</div>
+<h4>1916<br /></h4>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr />
+<h5><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1916<br />
+<span class="smcap">by</span><br />
+ELLEN N. LA MOTTE<br /></h5>
+
+<div class="figcenter"><br /><br /><br />
+<img src="images/image03.jpg" width="240" height="18" alt="The Knickerbocker Press, New York" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr />
+<h5>To<br />MARY BORDEN-TURNER<br />
+"<span class="smcap">The Little Boss</span>"</h5>
+
+<h6>TO WHOM I OWE MY EXPERIENCE IN<br />
+THE ZONE OF THE ARMIES</h6>
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+<p>This war has been described as &ldquo;Months
+of boredom, punctuated by moments
+of intense fright.&rdquo; The writer of these
+sketches has experienced many &ldquo;months of
+boredom,&rdquo; in a French military field hospital,
+situated ten kilometres behind the lines,
+in Belgium. During these months, the lines
+have not moved, either forward or backward,
+but have remained dead-locked, in one position.
+Undoubtedly, up and down the long-reaching
+kilometres of &ldquo;Front&rdquo; there has
+been action, and &ldquo;moments of intense fright&rdquo;
+have produced glorious deeds of valour,
+courage, devotion, and nobility. But when
+there is little or no action, there is a stagnant
+place, and in a stagnant place there is much
+ugliness. Much ugliness is churned up in
+
+<!--<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span>-->
+
+the wake of mighty, moving forces. We are
+witnessing a phase in the evolution of humanity,
+a phase called War&mdash;and the slow,
+onward progress stirs up the slime in the shallows,
+and this is the Backwash of War. It
+is very ugly. There are many little lives
+foaming up in the backwash. They are
+loosened by the sweeping current, and float
+to the surface, detached from their environment,
+and one glimpses them, weak, hideous,
+repellent. After the war, they will consolidate
+again into the condition called Peace.</p>
+
+<p>After this war, there will be many other
+wars, and in the intervals there will be peace.
+So it will alternate for many generations.
+By examining the things cast up in the backwash,
+we can gauge the progress of humanity.
+When clean little lives, when clean little
+souls boil up in the backwash, they will
+consolidate, after the final war, into a peace
+that shall endure. But not till then.</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+E. N. L. M.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br />
+</p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<div class="center">
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="75%" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS">
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;</td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC1" id="TOC1" href="#HEROES">
+<span class="smcap">Heroes</span></a></td><td align="right">3</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC2" id="TOC2" href="#LA_PATRIE_RECONNAISSANTE">
+<span class="smcap">La Patrie Reconnaissante</span></a></td><td align="right">17</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC3" id="TOC3" href="#THE_HOLE_IN_THE_HEDGE">
+<span class="smcap">The Hole in the Hedge</span></a></td><td align="right">35</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC4" id="TOC4" href="#ALONE">
+<span class="smcap">Alone</span></a></td><td align="right">49</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC5" id="TOC5" href="#A_BELGIAN_CIVILIAN">
+<span class="smcap">A Belgian Civilian</span></a></td><td align="right">63</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC6" id="TOC6" href="#THE_INTERVAL">
+<span class="smcap">The Interval</span></a></td><td align="right">77</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC7" id="TOC7" href="#WOMEN_AND_WIVES">
+<span class="smcap">Women and Wives</span></a></td><td align="right">95</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC8" id="TOC8" href="#POUR_LA_PATRIE">
+<span class="smcap">Pour la Patrie</span></a></td><td align="right">115</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC9" id="TOC9" href="#LOCOMOTOR_ATAXIA">
+<span class="smcap">Locomotor Ataxia</span></a></td><td align="right">129</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC10" id="TOC10" href="#A_SURGICAL_TRIUMPH">
+<span class="smcap">A Surgical Triumph</span></a></td><td align="right">143</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC11" id="TOC11" href="#AT_THE_TELEPHONE">
+<span class="smcap">At the Telephone</span></a></td><td align="right">159</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC12" id="TOC12" href="#A_CITATION">
+<span class="smcap">A Citation</span></a></td><td align="right">167</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left"><a name="TOC13" id="TOC13" href="#AN_INCIDENT">
+<span class="smcap">An Incident</span></a></td><td align="right">181</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">- 1 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">- 2 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">- 3 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="HEROES" id="HEROES" href="#TOC1">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">HEROES</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>When he could stand it no longer, he
+fired a revolver up through the roof
+of his mouth, but he made a mess of it.
+The ball tore out his left eye, and then lodged
+somewhere under his skull, so they bundled
+him into an ambulance and carried him,
+cursing and screaming, to the nearest field
+hospital. The journey was made in double-quick
+time, over rough Belgian roads. To
+save his life, he must reach the hospital without
+delay, and if he was bounced to death
+jolting along at breakneck speed, it did not
+matter. That was understood. He was a
+deserter, and discipline must be maintained.
+Since he had failed in the job, his life must
+be saved, he must be nursed back to health,
+until he was well enough to be stood up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">- 4 -</a></span>
+against a wall and shot. This is War.
+Things like this also happen in peace time,
+but not so obviously.</p>
+
+<p>At the hospital, he behaved abominably.
+The ambulance men declared that he had
+tried to throw himself out of the back of the
+ambulance, that he had yelled and hurled
+himself about, and spat blood all over the
+floor and blankets&mdash;in short, he was very
+disagreeable. Upon the operating table,
+he was no more reasonable. He shouted and
+screamed and threw himself from side to
+side, and it took a dozen leather straps and
+four or five orderlies to hold him in position,
+so that the surgeon could examine him.
+During this commotion, his left eye rolled
+about loosely upon his cheek, and from his
+bleeding mouth he shot great clots of stagnant
+blood, caring not where they fell. One
+fell upon the immaculate white uniform of the
+Directrice, and stained her, from breast to
+shoes. It was disgusting. They told him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">- 5 -</a></span>
+it was <i>La Directrice</i>, and that he must be
+careful. For an instant he stopped his
+raving, and regarded her fixedly with his
+remaining eye, then took aim afresh, and
+again covered her with his coward blood.
+Truly it was disgusting.</p>
+
+<p>To the <i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> it was incomprehensible,
+and he said so. To attempt to kill
+oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy
+to die with honour upon the battlefield, was
+something he could not understand. So
+the <i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> stood patiently aside,
+his arms crossed, his supple fingers pulling
+the long black hairs on his bare arms, waiting.
+He had long to wait, for it was difficult
+to get the man under the an&aelig;sthetic. Many
+cans of ether were used, which went to prove
+that the patient was a drinking man. Whether
+he had acquired the habit of hard drink before
+or since the war could not be ascertained;
+the war had lasted a year now, and in that
+time many habits may be formed. As the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">- 6 -</a></span>
+<i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> stood there, patiently fingering
+the hairs on his hairy arms, he calculated
+the amount of ether that was expended&mdash;five
+cans of ether, at so many francs a can&mdash;however,
+the ether was a donation from
+America, so it did not matter. Even so,
+it was wasteful.</p>
+
+<p>At last they said he was ready. He was
+quiet. During his struggles, they had broken
+out two big teeth with the mouth gag, and
+that added a little more blood to the blood
+already choking him. Then the <i>M&eacute;decin
+Major</i> did a very skilful operation. He
+trephined the skull, extracted the bullet
+that had lodged beneath it, and bound back
+in place that erratic eye. After which the
+man was sent over to the ward, while the
+surgeon returned hungrily to his dinner,
+long overdue.</p>
+
+<p>In the ward, the man was a bad patient.
+He insisted upon tearing off his bandages,
+although they told him that this meant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">- 7 -</a></span>
+bleeding to death. His mind seemed fixed
+on death. He seemed to want to die, and
+was thoroughly unreasonable, although quite
+conscious. All of which meant that he required
+constant watching and was a perfect
+nuisance. He was so different from the
+other patients, who wanted to live. It was
+a joy to nurse them. This was the <i>Salle</i> of
+the <i>Grands Bless&eacute;s</i>, those most seriously
+wounded. By expert surgery, by expert
+nursing, some of these were to be returned
+to their homes again, <i>r&eacute;form&eacute;s</i>, mutilated for
+life, a burden to themselves and to society;
+others were to be nursed back to health, to a
+point at which they could again shoulder
+eighty pounds of marching kit, and be torn
+to pieces again on the firing line. It was a
+pleasure to nurse such as these. It called
+forth all one&rsquo;s skill, all one&rsquo;s humanity.
+But to nurse back to health a man who was
+to be court-martialled and shot, truly that
+seemed a dead-end occupation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">- 8 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>They dressed his wounds every day. Very
+many yards of gauze were required, with
+gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much
+ether, very much iodoform, very many bandages&mdash;it
+was an expensive business, considering.
+All this waste for a man who was
+to be shot, as soon as he was well enough.
+How much better to expend this upon the
+hopeless cripples, or those who were to face
+death again in the trenches.</p>
+
+<p>The night nurse was given to reflection.
+One night, about midnight, she took her
+candle and went down the ward, reflecting.
+Ten beds on the right hand side, ten beds
+on the left hand side, all full. How pitiful
+they were, these little soldiers, asleep. How
+irritating they were, these little soldiers,
+awake. Yet how sternly they contrasted
+with the man who had attempted suicide.
+Yet did they contrast, after all? Were they
+finer, nobler, than he? The night nurse,
+given to reflection, continued her rounds.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">- 9 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>In bed number two, on the right, lay
+Alexandre, asleep. He had received the
+<i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i> for bravery. He was
+better now, and that day had asked the
+<i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> for permission to smoke.
+The <i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> had refused, saying that
+it would disturb the other patients. Yet
+after the doctor had gone, Alexandre had
+produced a cigarette and lighted it, defying
+them all from behind his <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>.
+The patient in the next bed had become
+violently nauseated in consequence, yet Alexandre
+had smoked on, secure in his <i>M&eacute;daille
+Militaire</i>. How much honour lay in that?</p>
+
+<p>Here lay F&eacute;lix, asleep. Poor, querulous,
+feeble-minded F&eacute;lix, with a foul fistula, which
+filled the whole ward with its odour. In
+one sleeping hand lay his little round mirror,
+in the other, he clutched his comb. With
+daylight, he would trim and comb his moustache,
+his poor, little drooping moustache,
+and twirl the ends of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">- 10 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Beyond lay Alphonse, drugged with morphia,
+after an intolerable day. That morning
+he had received a package from home, a
+dozen pears. He had eaten them all, one
+after the other, though his companions in
+the beds adjacent looked on with hungry,
+longing eyes. He offered not one, to either
+side of him. After his gorge, he had
+become violently ill, and demanded the
+basin in which to unload his surcharged
+stomach.</p>
+
+<p>Here lay Hippolyte, who for eight months
+had jerked on the bar of a captive balloon,
+until appendicitis had sent him into hospital.
+He was not ill, and his dirty jokes filled the
+ward, provoking laughter, even from dying
+Marius. How filthy had been his jokes&mdash;how
+they had been matched and beaten by
+the jokes of others. How filthy they all were,
+when they talked with each other, shouting
+down the length of the ward.</p>
+
+<p>Wherein lay the difference? Was it not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">- 11 -</a></span>
+all a dead-end occupation, nursing back to
+health men to be patched up and returned
+to the trenches, or a man to be patched up,
+court-martialled and shot? The difference
+lay in the Ideal.</p>
+
+<p>One had no ideals. The others had ideals,
+and fought for them. Yet had they? Poor
+selfish Alexandre, poor vain F&eacute;lix, poor
+gluttonous Alphonse, poor filthy Hippolyte&mdash;was
+it possible that each cherished ideals,
+hidden beneath? Courageous dreams of
+freedom and patriotism? Yet if so, how
+could such beliefs fail to influence their daily
+lives? Could one cherish standards so noble,
+yet be himself so ignoble, so petty, so commonplace?</p>
+
+<p>At this point her candle burned out, so
+the night nurse took another one, and passed
+from bed to bed. It was very incomprehensible.
+Poor, whining F&eacute;lix, poor whining
+Alphonse, poor whining Hippolyte, poor
+whining Alexandre&mdash;all fighting for <i>La Patrie</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">- 12 -</a></span>
+And against them the man who had tried
+to desert <i>La Patrie</i>.</p>
+
+<p>So the night nurse continued her rounds,
+up and down the ward, reflecting. And
+suddenly she saw that these ideals were
+imposed from without&mdash;that they were compulsory.
+That left to themselves, F&eacute;lix,
+and Hippolyte, and Alexandre, and Alphonse
+would have had no ideals. Somewhere,
+higher up, a handful of men had been able
+to impose upon Alphonse, and Hippolyte,
+and F&eacute;lix, and Alexandre, and thousands like
+them, a state of mind which was not in them,
+of themselves. Base metal, gilded. And
+they were all harnessed to a great car, a
+Juggernaut, ponderous and crushing, upon
+which was enthroned Mammon, or the Goddess
+of Liberty, or Reason, as you like.
+Nothing further was demanded of them than
+their collective physical strength&mdash;just to
+tug the car forward, to cut a wide swath, to
+leave behind a broad path along which could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">- 13 -</a></span>
+follow, at some later date, the hordes of
+Progress and Civilization. Individual nobility
+was superfluous. All the Idealists demanded
+was physical endurance from the
+mass.</p>
+
+<p>Dawn filtered in through the little square
+windows of the ward. Two of the patients
+rolled on their sides, that they might talk
+to one another. In the silence of early
+morning their voices rang clear.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dost thou know, <i>mon ami</i>, that when we
+captured that German battery a few days
+ago, we found the gunners chained to their
+guns?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+18 December, 1915.<br /></p>
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">- 14 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">- 15 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">- 16 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">- 17 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="LA_PATRIE_RECONNAISSANTE" id="LA_PATRIE_RECONNAISSANTE" href="#TOC2">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>They brought him to the <i>Poste de Secours</i>,
+just behind the lines, and laid the
+stretcher down gently, after which the
+bearers stretched and restretched their stiffened
+arms, numb with his weight. For he
+was a big man of forty, not one of the light
+striplings of the young classes of this year or
+last. The wounded man opened his eyes,
+flashing black eyes, that roved about restlessly
+for a moment, and then rested vindictively
+first on one, then on the other of the
+two <i>brancardiers</i>.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Sales embusqu&eacute;s!&rdquo;</i> (Dirty cowards) he
+cried angrily. &ldquo;How long is it since I have
+been wounded? Ten hours! For ten hours
+have I laid there, waiting for you! And
+then you come to fetch me, only when it is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">- 18 -</a></span>
+safe! Safe for you! Safe to risk your precious,
+filthy skins! Safe to come where I
+have stood for months! Safe to come where
+for ten hours I have laid, my belly opened
+by a German shell! Safe! Safe! How brave
+you are when night has fallen, when it is
+dark, when it is safe to come for me, ten hours
+late!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He closed his eyes, jerked up his knees,
+and clasped both dirty hands over his abdomen.
+From waist to knees the old blue
+trousers were soaked with blood, black
+blood, stiff and wet. The <i>brancardiers</i> looked
+at each other and shook their heads. One
+shrugged a shoulder. Again the flashing
+eyes of the man on the stretcher opened.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Sales embusqu&eacute;s!&rdquo;</i> he shouted again.
+&ldquo;How long have you been engaged in this
+work of mercy? For twelve months, since
+the beginning of the war! And for twelve
+months, since the beginning of the war, I
+have stood in the first line trenches! Think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">- 19 -</a></span>
+of it&mdash;twelve months! And for twelve
+months you have come for us&mdash;when it was
+safe! How much younger are you than I!
+Ten years, both of you&mdash;ten years, fifteen
+years, or even more! Ah, <i>Nom de Dieu</i>, to
+have influence! Influence!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The flaming eyes closed again, and the
+bearers shuffled off, lighting cheap cigarettes.</p>
+
+<p>Then the surgeon came, impatiently. Ah,
+a <i>grand bless&eacute;</i>, to be hastened to the rear at
+once. The surgeon tried to unbutton the
+soaking trousers, but the man gave a scream
+of pain.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;For the sake of God, cut them, <i>Monsieur
+le Major!</i> Cut them! Do not economize.
+They are worn out in the service of the country!
+They are torn and bloody, they can
+serve no one after me! Ah, the little economies,
+the little, false economies! Cut them,
+<i>Monsieur le Major!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>An assistant, with heavy, blunt scissors,
+half cut, half tore the trousers from the man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">- 20 -</a></span>
+in agony. Clouts of black blood rolled from
+the wound, then a stream bright and scarlet,
+which was stopped by a handful of white
+gauze, retained by tightly wrapped bands.
+The surgeon raised himself from the task.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Mon pauvre vieux</i>,&rdquo; he murmured tenderly.
+&ldquo;Once more?&rdquo; and into the supine
+leg he shot a stream of morphia.</p>
+
+<p>Two ambulance men came in, Americans
+in khaki, ruddy, well fed, careless. They
+lifted the stretcher quickly, skilfully. Marius
+opened his angry eyes and fixed them
+furiously.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Sales &eacute;trangers!&rdquo;</i> he screamed. &ldquo;What
+are <i>you</i> here for? To see me, with my bowels
+running on the ground? Did you come for
+me ten hours ago, when I needed you? My
+head in mud, my blood warm under me?
+Ah, not you! There was danger then&mdash;you
+only come for me when it is safe!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They shoved him into the ambulance,
+buckling down the brown canvas curtains<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">- 21 -</a></span>
+by the light of a lantern. One cranked the
+motor, then both clambered to the seat in
+front, laughing. They drove swiftly but
+carefully through the darkness, carrying no
+lights. Inside, the man continued his imprecations,
+but they could not hear him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Strangers! Sightseers!&rdquo; he sobbed in
+misery. &ldquo;Driving a motor, when it is I
+who should drive the motor! Have I not
+conducted a Paris taxi for these past ten
+years? Do I not know how to drive, to
+manage an engine? What are they here for&mdash;France?
+No, only themselves! To write
+a book&mdash;to say what they have done&mdash;when
+it was safe! If it was France, there is the
+Foreign Legion&mdash;where they would have been
+welcome&mdash;to stand in the trenches as I have
+done! But do they enlist? Ah no! It is not
+safe! They take my place with the motor,
+and come to get me&mdash;when it is too late.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then the morphia relieving him, he slept.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">- 22 -</a></span></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>In a field hospital, some ten kilometres
+behind the lines, Marius lay dying. For
+three days he had been dying and it was
+disturbing to the other patients. The stench
+of his wounds filled the air, his curses filled
+the ward. For Marius knew that he was
+dying and that he had nothing to fear. He
+could express himself as he chose. There
+would be no earthly court-martial for him&mdash;he
+was answerable to a higher court. So
+Marius gave forth freely to the ward his
+philosophy of life, his hard, bare, ugly life,
+as he had lived it, and his comments on <i>La
+Patrie</i> as he understood it. For three days,
+night and day, he screamed in his delirium,
+and no one paid much attention, thinking
+it was delirium. The other patients were
+sometimes diverted and amused, sometimes
+exceedingly annoyed, according to whether
+or not they were sleepy or suffering. And
+all the while the wound in the abdomen gave
+forth a terrible stench, filling the ward, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">- 23 -</a></span>
+he had gas gangrene, the odour of which is
+abominable.</p>
+
+<p>Marius had been taken to the <i>Salle</i> of the
+abdominal wounds, and on one side of him
+lay a man with a f&aelig;cal fistula, which smelled
+atrociously. The man with the fistula,
+however, had got used to himself, so he complained
+mightily of Marius. On the other
+side lay a man who had been shot through
+the bladder, and the smell of urine was heavy
+in the air round about. Yet this man had
+also got used to himself, and he too complained
+of Marius, and the awful smell of
+Marius. For Marius had gas gangrene, and
+gangrene is death, and it was the smell of
+death that the others complained of.</p>
+
+<p>Two beds farther down, lay a boy of
+twenty, who had been shot through the
+liver. Also his hand had been amputated,
+and for this reason he was to receive the
+<i>Croix de Guerre</i>. He had performed no
+special act of bravery, but all <i>mutil&eacute;s</i> are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">- 24 -</a></span>
+given the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>, for they will recover
+and go back to Paris, and in walking
+about the streets of Paris, with one leg gone,
+or an arm gone, it is good for the <i>morale</i> of
+the country that they should have a <i>Croix
+de Guerre</i> pinned on their breasts. So one
+night at about eight o&rsquo;clock, the General
+arrived to confer the <i>Croix de Guerre</i> on the
+man two beds from Marius. The General
+was a beautiful man, something like the
+Russian Grand Duke. He was tall and
+thin, with beautiful slim legs encased in
+shining tall boots. As he entered the ward,
+emerging from the rain and darkness without,
+he was very imposing. A few rain drops
+sparkled upon the golden oak leaves of his
+cap, for although he had driven up in a limousine,
+he was not able to come quite up
+to the ward, but had been obliged to traverse
+some fifty yards of darkness, in the rain.
+He was encircled in a sweeping black cloak,
+which he cast off upon an empty bed, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">- 25 -</a></span>
+then, surrounded by his glittering staff, he
+conferred the medal upon the man two beds
+below Marius. The little ceremony was
+touching in its dignity and simplicity.
+Marius, in his delirium, watched the proceedings
+intently.</p>
+
+<p>It was all over in five minutes. Then the
+General was gone, his staff was gone, and
+the ward was left to its own reflections.</p>
+
+<p>Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a
+little <i>joyeux</i>. That is to say, a soldier of
+the <i>Bataillon d&rsquo;Afrique</i>, which is the criminal
+regiment of France, in which regiment are
+placed those men who would otherwise serve
+sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this
+regiment in peace time, and in time of war,
+they fight in the trenches as do the others,
+but with small chance of being decorated.
+Social rehabilitation is their sole reward,
+as a rule. So Marius waxed forth, taunting
+the little <i>joyeux</i>, whose feet lay opposite his
+feet, a yard apart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">- 26 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Tiens!</i> My little friend!&rdquo; he shouted
+so that all might hear. &ldquo;Thou canst never
+receive the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>, as Fran&ccedil;ois has
+received it, because thou art of the <i>Bataillon
+d&rsquo;Afrique!</i> And why art thou there, my
+friend? Because, one night at a caf&eacute;, thou
+didst drink more wine than was good for
+thee&mdash;so much more than was good for thee,
+that when an old <i>boulevardier</i>, with much
+money in his pocket, proposed to take thy
+girl from thee, thou didst knock him down
+and give him a black eye! Common brawler,
+disturber of the peace! It was all due
+to the wine, the good wine, which made thee
+value the girl far above her worth! It was
+the wine! The wine! And every time an
+attempt is made in the Chamber to abolish
+drinking the good wine of France, there is
+violent opposition. Opposition from whom?
+From the old <i>boulevardier</i> whose money is
+invested in the vineyards&mdash;the very man
+who casts covetous eyes upon thy Mimi!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">- 27 -</a></span>
+So thou goest to jail, then to the <i>Bataillon
+d&rsquo;Afrique</i>, and the wine flows, and thy Mimi&mdash;where
+is she? Only never canst thou receive
+the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>, my friend&mdash;<i>La
+Patrie Reconnaissante</i> sees to that!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Marius shouted with laughter&mdash;he knew
+himself so near death, and it was good to be
+able to say all that was in his heart. An
+orderly approached him, one of the six young
+men attached as male nurses to the ward.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ha! Thou bidst me be quiet, <i>sale embusqu&eacute;</i>?&rdquo;
+he taunted. &ldquo;I will shout louder
+than the guns! And hast thou ever heard
+the guns, nearer than this safe point behind
+the lines? Thou art here doing woman&rsquo;s
+work! Caring for me, nursing me! And
+what knowledge dost thou bring to thy task,
+thou ignorant grocer&rsquo;s clerk? Surely thou
+hast some powerful friend, who got thee
+mobilized as <i>infirmier</i>&mdash;a woman&rsquo;s task&mdash;instead
+of a simple soldier like me, doing his
+duty in the trenches!&rdquo;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">- 28 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Marius raised himself in bed, which the
+<i>infirmier</i> knew, because the doctor had told
+him, was not a right position for a man who
+has a wound in his stomach, some thirty
+centimetres in length. Marius, however,
+was strong in his delirium, so the <i>infirmier</i>
+called another to help him throw the patient
+upon his back. Soon three were called, to
+hold the struggling man down.</p>
+
+<p>Marius resigned himself. &ldquo;Summon all
+six of you!&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;All six of you!
+And what do you know about illness such as
+mine? You, a grocer&rsquo;s clerk! You, barber!
+You, <i>cultivateur</i>! You, driver of the boat
+train from Paris to Cherbourg! You, agent
+of the Gas Society of Paris! You, driver of
+a Paris taxi, such as myself! Yet here you
+all are, in your wisdom, your experience, to
+nurse me! Mobilized as nurses because
+you are friend of a friend of a deputy!
+Whilst I, who know no deputy, am mobilized
+in the first line trenches! <i>Sales</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">- 29 -</a></span>
+<i>embusqu&eacute;s! Sales embusqu&eacute;s! La Patrie
+Reconnaissante!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>He laid upon his back a little while, quiet.
+He was very delirious, and the end could
+not be far off. His black eyebrows were
+contracted into a frown, the eyelids closed
+and quivering. The grey nostrils were
+pinched and dilated, the grey lips snarling
+above yellow, crusted teeth. The restless
+lips twitched constantly, mumbling fresh
+treason, inaudibly. Upon the floor on one
+side lay a pile of coverlets, tossed angrily
+from the bed, while on each side the bed
+dangled white, muscular, hairy legs, the toes
+touching the floor. All the while he fumbled
+to unloose the abdominal dressings, picking
+at the safety-pins with weak, dirty fingers.
+The patients on each side turned their backs
+to him, to escape the smell, the smell of
+death.</p>
+
+<p>A woman nurse came down the ward. She
+was the only one, and she tried to cover him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">- 30 -</a></span>
+with the fallen bedding. Marius attempted
+to clutch her hand, to encircle her with his
+weak, delirious, amorous arms. She dodged
+swiftly, and directed an orderly to cover him
+with the fallen blankets.</p>
+
+<p>Marius laughed in glee, a fiendish, feeble,
+shrieking laugh. &ldquo;Have nothing to do with
+a woman who is diseased!&rdquo; he shouted.
+&ldquo;Never! Never! Never!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>So they gave him more morphia, that he
+might be quiet and less indecent, and not
+disturb the other patients. And all that
+night he died, and all the next day he died,
+and all the night following he died, for he was
+a very strong man and his vitality was wonderful.
+And as he died, he continued to
+pour out to them his experience of life, his
+summing up of life, as he had lived it and
+known it. And the sight of the woman nurse
+evoked one train of thought, and the sight
+of the men nurses evoked another, and the
+sight of the man who had the <i>Croix de Guerre</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">- 31 -</a></span>
+evoked another, and the sight of the <i>joyeux</i>
+evoked another. And he told the ward all
+about it, incessantly. He was very delirious.</p>
+
+<p>His was a filthy death. He died after
+three days&rsquo; cursing and raving. Before he
+died, that end of the ward smelled foully,
+and his foul words, shouted at the top of his
+delirious voice, echoed foully. Everyone
+was glad when it was over.</p>
+
+<p>The end came suddenly. After very much
+raving it came, after terrible abuse, terrible
+truths. One morning, very early, the night
+nurse looked out of the window and saw a
+little procession making its way out of the
+gates of the hospital enclosure, going towards
+the cemetery of the village beyond. First
+came the priest, carrying a wooden cross
+that the carpenter had just made. He was
+chanting something in a minor key, while
+the sentry at the gates stood at salute. The
+cort&egrave;ge passed through, numbering a dozen
+soldiers, four of whom carried the bier on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">- 32 -</a></span>
+their shoulders. The bier was covered with
+the glorious tricolour of France. She glanced
+instinctively back towards Marius. It would
+be just like that when he died. Then her
+eyes fell upon a Paris newspaper, lying on
+her table. There was a column headed,
+&ldquo;<i>Nos H&eacute;ros! Morts aux Champs d&rsquo;Honneur!
+La Patrie Reconnaissante.</i>&rdquo; It would be
+just like that.</p>
+
+<p>Then Marius gave a last, sudden scream.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Vive la France!&rdquo;</i> he shouted. <i>&ldquo;Vive les
+sales embusqu&eacute;s! Hoch le Kaiser!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>The ward awoke, scandalized.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Vive la Patrie Reconnaissante!&rdquo;</i> he yelled.
+<i>&ldquo;Hoch le Kaiser!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>Then he died.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+19 December, 1915.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">- 33 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">- 34 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">- 35 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="THE_HOLE_IN_THE_HEDGE" id="THE_HOLE_IN_THE_HEDGE" href="#TOC3">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>The field hospital stood in a field outside
+the village, surrounded by a thick,
+high hedge of prickly material. Within, the
+enclosure was filled by a dozen little wooden
+huts, painted green, connected with each
+other by plank walks. What went on outside
+the hedge, nobody within knew. War,
+presumably. War ten kilometres away, to
+judge by the map, and by the noise of the
+guns, which on some days roared very loudly,
+and made the wooden huts shake and tremble,
+although one got used to that, after a fashion.
+The hospital was very close to the war, so
+close that no one knew anything about the
+war, therefore it was very dull inside the
+enclosure, with no news and no newspapers,
+and just quarrels and monotonous work.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">- 36 -</a></span>
+As for the hedge, at such points as the prickly
+thorn gave out or gave way, stout stakes
+and stout boarding took its place, thus making
+it a veritable prison wall to those confined
+within. There was but one recognized entrance,
+the big double gates with a sentry
+box beside them, at which box or within it,
+according to the weather, stood a sentry,
+night and day. By day, a drooping French
+flag over the gates showed the ambulances
+where to enter. By night, a lantern served
+the same purpose. The night sentry was
+often asleep, the day sentry was often absent,
+and each wrote down in a book, when they
+thought it important, the names of those
+who came and went into the hospital grounds.
+The field ambulances came and went, the hospital
+motors came and went, now and then the
+General&rsquo;s car came and went, and the people
+attached to the hospital also came and went,
+openly, through the gates. But the comings
+and goings through the hedge were different.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">- 37 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Now and then holes were discovered in
+the hedge. Holes underneath the prickly
+thorn, not more than a foot high, but sufficient
+to allow a crawling body to wriggle
+through on its stomach. These holes persisted
+for a day or two or three, and then
+were suddenly staked up, with strong stakes
+and barbed wire. After which, a few days
+later, perhaps, other holes like them would
+be discovered in the hedge a little further
+along. After each hole was discovered,
+curious happenings would take place amongst
+the hospital staff.</p>
+
+<p>Certain men, orderlies or stretcher bearers,
+would be imprisoned. For example,
+the nurse of <i>Salle I.</i>, the ward of the <i>grands
+bless&eacute;s</i>, would come on duty some morning
+and discover that one of her orderlies was
+missing. Fouquet, who swept the ward,
+who carried basins, who gave the men their
+breakfasts, was absent. There was a beastly
+hitch in the ward work, in consequence.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">- 38 -</a></span>
+The floor was filthy, covered with cakes of
+mud tramped in by the stretcher bearers
+during the night. The men screamed for
+attention they did not receive. The wrong
+patients got the wrong food at meal times.
+And then the nurse would look out of one
+of the little square windows of the ward, and
+see Fouquet marching up and down the
+plank walks between the <i>baracques</i>, carrying
+his eighty pounds of marching kit, and smiling
+happily and defiantly. He was &ldquo;in
+prison.&rdquo; The night before he had crawled
+through a hole in the hedge, got blind drunk
+in a neighbouring <i>estaminet</i>, and had swaggered
+boldly through the gates in the morning,
+to be &ldquo;imprisoned.&rdquo; He wanted to be.
+He just could not stand it any longer. He
+was sick of it all. Sick of being <i>infirmier</i>,
+of sweeping the floor, of carrying vessels,
+of cutting up tough meat for sullen, one-armed
+men, with the <i>Croix de Guerre</i> pinned
+to their coffee-streaked night shirts. Bah!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">- 39 -</a></span>
+The <i>Croix de Guerre</i> pinned to a night shirt,
+egg-stained, smelling of sweat!</p>
+
+<p>Long, long ago, before any one thought of
+war&mdash;oh, long ago, that is, about six years&mdash;Fouquet
+had known a deputy. Also his
+father had known the deputy. And so, when
+it came time for his military service, he had
+done it as <i>infirmier</i>. As nurse, not soldier.
+He had done stretcher drill, with empty
+stretchers. He had swept wards, empty of
+patients. He had done his two years military
+service, practising on empty beds, on
+empty stretchers. He had had a snap, because
+of the deputy. Then came the war,
+and still he had a snap, although now the
+beds and the wards were all full. Still,
+there was no danger, no front line trenches,
+for he was mobilized as <i>infirmier</i>, as nurse in
+a military hospital. He stood six feet tall,
+which is big for a Frenchman, and he was
+big in proportion, and he was twenty-five
+years old, and ruddy and strong. Yet he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">- 40 -</a></span>
+was obliged to wait upon a little screaming
+man, five feet two, whose nose had been shot
+away, exchanged for the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>
+upon his breast, who screamed out to him:
+&ldquo;Bring me the basin, <i>embusqu&eacute;!&rdquo;</i> And he
+had brought it. If he had not brought it,
+the little screaming man with no nose and
+the flat bandage across his face would have
+reported him to the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i>, and in
+time he might have been transferred to the
+front line trenches. Anything is better
+than the front line trenches. Fouquet knew
+this, because the wounded men were so bitter
+at his not being there. The old men were
+very bitter. At the end of the summer,
+they changed the troops in this sector, and
+the young Zouaves were replaced by old
+men of forty and forty-five. They looked
+very much older than this when they were
+wounded and brought into the hospital,
+for their hair and beards were often quite
+white, and besides their wounds, they were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">- 41 -</a></span>
+often sick from exposure to the cold, winter
+rains of Flanders. One of these old men,
+who were nearly always querulous, had a
+son also serving in the trenches. He was
+very rude to Fouquet, this old man. Old
+and young, they called him <i>embusqu&eacute;</i>. Which
+meant that they were jealous of him, that
+they very much envied him for escaping the
+trenches, and considered it very unjust that
+they knew no one with influence who could
+have protected them in the same way. But
+Fouquet was very sick of it all. Day in and
+day out, for eighteen months, or since the
+beginning of the war, he had waited upon
+the wounded. He had done as the commonest
+soldier had ordered him, clodding up and
+down the ward in his heavy wooden <i>sabots</i>,
+knocking them against the beds, eliciting
+curses for his intentional clumsiness. There
+were also many priests in that hospital, likewise
+serving as <i>infirmiers</i>. They too, fetched
+and carried, but they did not seem to resent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">- 42 -</a></span>
+it. Only Fouquet and some others resented
+it. Fouquet resented the war, and the first
+line trenches, and the field hospital, and the
+wounded men, and everything connected
+with the war. He was utterly bored with
+the war. The hole in the hedge and the
+<i>estaminet</i> beyond was all that saved him.</p>
+
+<p>There was a priest with a yellow beard,
+who also used the hole in the hedge. He
+used it almost every night, when it was open.
+He slipped out, got his drink, and then slipped
+down to the village to spend the night with
+a girl. Only he was crafty, and slipped back
+again through the hole before daylight, and
+was always on duty again in the morning.
+True, he was very cross and irritable, and
+the patients did without things rather than
+ask him for them, and sometimes they
+suffered a great deal, doing without things,
+on these mornings when he was so cross.</p>
+
+<p>But with Fouquet, it was different. He
+walked in boldly through the gates in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">- 43 -</a></span>
+morning, and said that he had been out all
+night without leave, and that he was bored
+to the point of death. So the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i>
+punished him. He imprisoned him, and as
+there was no prison, he served his six days&rsquo;
+sentence in the open air. He donned his
+eighty pounds of marching kit, and tramped
+up and down the plank walks, and round
+behind the <i>baracques</i>, in the mud, in full
+sight of all, so that all might witness his
+humiliation. He did not go on duty again
+in the ward, and in consequence, the ward
+suffered through lack of his grudging, uncouth
+administration.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes he met the <i>Directrice</i> as he
+trudged up and down. He was always afraid
+to meet her, because once she had gone to
+the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> and had him pardoned.
+Her gentle heart had been touched at the
+sight of his public disgrace, so she had had
+his sentence remitted, and he had been
+obliged to go back to the ward, to the work he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">- 44 -</a></span>
+loathed, to the patients he despised, after
+only two hours&rsquo; freedom in a rare October sun.
+Since then, he had carefully avoided the
+<i>Directrice</i> when he saw her blue cloak in the
+distance, coming down the <i>trottoir</i>. Women
+were a nuisance at the Front.</p>
+
+<p>He frequently encountered the man who
+picked up papers, and frankly envied him,
+for this man had a very easy post. He was
+mobilized as a member of the <i>formation</i> of
+Hospital Number &mdash;&mdash;, and his work consisted
+in picking up scraps of paper scattered about
+the grounds within the enclosure. He had a
+long stick with a nail in the end, and a small
+basket because there wasn&rsquo;t much to pick
+up. With the nail, he picked up what scraps
+there were, and did not even have to stoop
+over to do it. He walked about in the clean,
+fresh air, and when it rained, he cuddled up
+against the stove in the pharmacy. The
+present paper-gatherer was a chemist; his
+predecessor had been a priest. It was a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">- 45 -</a></span>
+very nice position for an able-bodied man
+with some education, and Fouquet greatly
+desired it himself, only he feared he was not
+sufficiently well educated, since in civil life
+he was only a farm hand. So in his march
+up and down the <i>trottoir</i> he cast envious
+glances at the man who picked up papers.</p>
+
+<p>So, bearing his full-weight marching kit,
+he walked up and down, between the <i>baracques</i>,
+dogged and defiant. The other orderlies
+and stretcher bearers laughed at
+him, and said: &ldquo;There goes Fouquet, punished!&rdquo;
+And the patients, who missed him,
+asked: &ldquo;Where is Fouquet? Punished?&rdquo;
+And the nurse of that ward, who also missed
+Fouquet, said: &ldquo;Poor Fouquet! Punished!&rdquo;
+But Fouquet, swaggering up and down in
+full sight of all, was pleased because he had
+had a good drink the night before, and did
+not have to wait upon the patients the day
+after, and to him, the only sane thing about
+the war was the discipline of the Army.</p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">- 46 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">- 47 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">- 48 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">- 49 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="ALONE" id="ALONE" href="#TOC4">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">ALONE</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>Rochard died to-day. He had gas
+gangrene. His thigh, from knee to buttock,
+was torn out by a piece of German shell.
+It was an interesting case, because the infection
+had developed so quickly. He had been
+placed under treatment immediately too,
+reaching the hospital from the trenches
+about six hours after he had been wounded.
+To have a thigh torn off, and to reach first-class
+surgical care within six hours, is practically
+immediately. Still, gas gangrene had
+developed, which showed that the Germans
+were using very poisonous shells. At that
+field hospital there had been established a
+surgical school, to which young men, just
+graduated from medical schools, or old men,
+graduated long ago from medical schools,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">- 50 -</a></span>
+were sent to learn how to take care of the
+wounded. After they had received a two
+months&rsquo; experience in this sort of war surgery,
+they were to be placed in other hospitals,
+where they could do the work themselves.
+So all those young men who did not know
+much, and all those old men who had never
+known much, and had forgotten most of that,
+were up here at this field hospital, learning.
+This had to be done, because there were not
+enough good doctors to go round, so in order
+to care for the wounded at all, it was necessary
+to furbish up the immature and the
+senile. However, the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> in charge
+of the hospital and in charge of the surgical
+school, was a brilliant surgeon and a good
+administrator, so he taught the students a
+good deal. Therefore, when Rochard came
+into the operating room, all the young students
+and the old students crowded round
+to see the case. It was all torn away, the
+flesh from that right thigh, from knee to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">- 51 -</a></span>
+buttock, down to the bone, and the stench
+was awful. The various students came forward
+and timidly pressed the upper part of
+the thigh, the remaining part, all that remained
+of it, with their fingers, and little
+crackling noises came forth, like bubbles.
+Gas gangrene. Very easy to diagnose. Also
+the bacteriologist from another hospital in
+the region happened to be present, and he
+made a culture of the material discharged
+from that wound, and afterwards told the
+<i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> that it was positively and
+absolutely gas gangrene. But the <i>M&eacute;decin
+Chef</i> had already taught the students
+that gas gangrene may be recognized by
+the crackling and the smell, and the fact
+that the patient, as a rule, dies pretty
+soon.</p>
+
+<p>They could not operate on Rochard and
+amputate his leg, as they wanted to do.
+The infection was so high, into the hip, it
+could not be done. Moreover, Rochard had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">- 52 -</a></span>
+a fractured skull as well. Another piece of
+shell had pierced his ear, and broken into
+his brain, and lodged there. Either wound
+would have been fatal, but it was the gas
+gangrene in his torn-out thigh that would
+kill him first. The wound stank. It was
+foul. The <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> took a curette, a
+little scoop, and scooped away the dead flesh,
+the dead muscles, the dead nerves, the dead
+blood-vessels. And so many blood-vessels
+being dead, being scooped away by that
+sharp curette, how could the blood circulate
+in the top half of that flaccid thigh? It
+couldn&rsquo;t. Afterwards, into the deep, yawning
+wound, they put many compresses of
+gauze, soaked in carbolic acid, which acid
+burned deep into the germs of the gas gangrene,
+and killed them, and killed much
+good tissue besides. Then they covered the
+burning, smoking gauze with absorbent cotton,
+then with clean, neat bandages, after
+which they called the stretcher bearers, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">- 53 -</a></span>
+Rochard was carried from the operating
+table back to the ward.</p>
+
+<p>The night nurse reported next morning
+that he had passed a night of agony.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Cela pique! Cela brule!&rdquo;</i> he cried all
+night, and turned from side to side to find
+relief. Sometimes he lay on his good side;
+sometimes he lay on his bad side, and the
+night nurse turned him from side to side,
+according to his fancy, because she knew that
+on neither one side nor the other would he
+find relief, except such mental relief as he
+got by turning. She sent one of the orderlies,
+Fouquet, for the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i>, and the
+<i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> came to the ward, and looked
+at Rochard, and ordered the night nurse to
+give him morphia, and again morphia, as
+often as she thought best. For only death
+could bring relief from such pain as that,
+and only morphia, a little in advance of
+death, could bring partial relief.</p>
+
+<p>So the night nurse took care of Rochard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">- 54 -</a></span>
+all that night, and turned him and turned
+him, from one side to the other, and gave him
+morphia, as the <i>M&eacute;decin Chef</i> had ordered.
+She listened to his cries all night, for the
+morphia brought him no relief. Morphia
+gives a little relief, at times, from the pain
+of life, but it is only death that brings
+absolute relief.</p>
+
+<p>When the day nurse came on duty next
+morning, there was Rochard in agony.
+<i>&ldquo;Cela pique! Cela brule!&rdquo;</i> he cried. And
+again and again, all the time, <i>&ldquo;Cela pique!
+Cela brule!&rdquo;</i>, meaning the pain in his leg.
+And because of the piece of shell, which had
+penetrated his ear and lodged in his brain
+somewhere, his wits were wandering. No
+one can be fully conscious with an inch of
+German shell in his skull. And there was a
+full inch of German shell in Rochard&rsquo;s skull,
+in his brain somewhere, for the radiographist
+said so. He was a wonderful radiographist
+and anatomist, and he worked accurately<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">- 55 -</a></span>
+with a beautiful, expensive machine, given
+him, or given the field hospital, by Madame
+Curie.</p>
+
+<p>So all night Rochard screamed in agony,
+and turned and twisted, first on the hip that
+was there, and then on the hip that was gone,
+and on neither side, even with many ampoules
+of morphia, could he find relief. Which
+shows that morphia, good as it is, is not as
+good as death. So when the day nurse came
+on in the morning, there was Rochard strong
+after a night of agony, strong after many
+<i>picqures</i> of strychnia, which kept his heart
+beating and his lungs breathing, strong
+after many <i>picqures</i> of morphia which did
+not relieve his pain. Thus the science of
+healing stood baffled before the science of
+destroying.</p>
+
+<p>Rochard died slowly. He stopped struggling.
+He gave up trying to find relief by
+lying upon the hip that was there, or the hip
+that was gone. He ceased to cry. His<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">- 56 -</a></span>
+brain, in which was lodged a piece of German
+shell, seemed to reason, to become reasonable,
+with break of day. The evening before,
+after his return from the operating room, he
+had been decorated with the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>,
+conferred upon him, <i>in extremis</i>, by
+the General of the region. Upon one side
+of the medal, which was pinned to the wall
+at the head of the bed, were the words:
+<i>Valeur et Discipline</i>. Discipline had triumphed.
+He was very good and quiet now,
+very obedient and disciplined, and no longer
+disturbed the ward with his moanings.</p>
+
+<p>Little Rochard! Little man, gardener
+by trade, aged thirty-nine, widower, with
+one child! The piece of shell in his skull
+had made one eye blind. There had been
+a h&aelig;morrhage into the eyeball, which was all
+red and sunken, and the eyelid would not
+close over it, so the red eye stared and stared
+into space. And the other eye drooped and
+drooped, and the white showed, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">- 57 -</a></span>
+eyelid drooped till nothing but the white
+showed, and that showed that he was dying.
+But the blind, red eye stared beyond. It
+stared fixedly, unwinkingly, into space. So
+always the nurse watched the dull, white eye,
+which showed the approach of death.</p>
+
+<p>No one in the ward was fond of Rochard.
+He had been there only a few hours. He
+meant nothing to any one there. He was a
+dying man, in a field hospital, that was all.
+Little stranger Rochard, with one blind,
+red eye that stared into Hell, the Hell he
+had come from. And one white, dying eye,
+that showed his hold on life, his brief, short
+hold. The nurse cared for him very gently,
+very conscientiously, very skilfully. The
+surgeon came many times to look at him,
+but he had done for him all that could be
+done, so each time he turned away with a
+shrug. Fouquet, the young orderly, stood
+at the foot of the bed, his feet far apart, his
+hands on his hips, and regarded Rochard,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">- 58 -</a></span>
+and said: <i>&ldquo;Ah! La la! La la!&rdquo;</i> And
+Simon, the other orderly, also stood at the
+foot of the bed, from time to time, and
+regarded Rochard, and said: <i>&ldquo;Ah! C&rsquo;est
+triste! C&rsquo;est bien triste!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>So Rochard died, a stranger among strangers.
+And there were many people there to
+wait upon him, but there was no one there
+to love him. There was no one there to see
+beyond the horror of the red, blind eye, of
+the dull, white eye, of the vile, gangrene
+smell. And it seemed as if the red, staring
+eye was looking for something the hospital
+could not give. And it seemed as if the
+white, glazed eye was indifferent to everything
+the hospital could give. And all about
+him was the vile gangrene smell, which made
+an aura about him, and shut him into himself,
+very completely. And there was nobody
+to love him, to forget about that smell.</p>
+
+<p>He sank into a stupor about ten o&rsquo;clock
+in the morning, and was unconscious from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">- 59 -</a></span>
+then till the time the nurse went to lunch.
+She went to lunch reluctantly, but it is necessary
+to eat. She instructed Fouquet, the
+orderly, to watch Rochard carefully, and to
+call her if there was any change.</p>
+
+<p>After a short time she came back from
+lunch, and hurried to see Rochard, hurried
+behind the flamboyant, red, cheerful screens
+that shut him off from the rest of the ward.
+Rochard was dead.</p>
+
+<p>At the other end of the ward sat the two
+orderlies, drinking wine.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+April 15, 1915.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">- 60 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">- 61 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">- 62 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">- 63 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="A_BELGIAN_CIVILIAN" id="A_BELGIAN_CIVILIAN" href="#TOC5">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">A BELGIAN CIVILIAN</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>A big English ambulance drove along the
+high road from Ypres, going in the
+direction of a French field hospital, some ten
+miles from Ypres. Ordinarily, it could have
+had no business with this French hospital,
+since all English wounded are conveyed back
+to their own bases, therefore an exceptional
+case must have determined its route. It was
+an exceptional case&mdash;for the patient lying
+quietly within its yawning body, sheltered
+by its brown canvas wings, was not an
+English soldier, but only a small Belgian
+boy, a civilian, and Belgian civilians belong
+neither to the French nor English services.
+It is true that there was a hospital for Belgian
+civilians at the English base at Hazebrouck,
+and it would have seemed reasonable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">- 64 -</a></span>
+to have taken the patient there, but it was
+more reasonable to dump him at this French
+hospital, which was nearer. Not from any
+humanitarian motives, but just to get rid
+of him the sooner. In war, civilians are
+cheap things at best, and an immature civilian,
+Belgian at that, is very cheap. So the
+heavy English ambulance churned its way
+up a muddy hill, mashed through much mud
+at the entrance gates of the hospital, and
+crunched to a halt on the cinders before the
+<i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i>, where it discharged its burden
+and drove off again.</p>
+
+<p>The surgeon of the French hospital said:
+&ldquo;What have we to do with this?&rdquo; yet he
+regarded the patient thoughtfully. It was
+a very small patient. Moreover, the big
+English ambulance had driven off again, so
+there was no appeal. The small patient
+had been deposited upon one of the beds in
+the <i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i>, and the French surgeon
+looked at him and wondered what he should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">- 65 -</a></span>
+do. The patient, now that he was here,
+belonged as much to the French field hospital
+as to any other, and as the big English ambulance
+from Ypres had driven off again,
+there was not much use in protesting. The
+French surgeon was annoyed and irritated.
+It was a characteristic English trick, he
+thought, this getting other people to do their
+work. Why could they not have taken the
+child to one of their own hospitals, since he
+had been wounded in their lines, or else have
+taken him to the hospital provided for Belgian
+civilians, where, full as it was, there
+was always room for people as small as
+this. The surgeon worked himself up
+into quite a temper. There is one thing
+about members of the <i>Entente</i>&mdash;they understand
+each other. The French surgeon&rsquo;s
+thoughts travelled round and round in
+an irritated circle, and always came back
+to the fact that the English ambulance
+had gone, and here lay the patient, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">- 66 -</a></span>
+something must be done. So he stood
+considering.</p>
+
+<p>A Belgian civilian, aged ten. Or thereabouts.
+Shot through the abdomen, or thereabouts.
+And dying, obviously. As usual,
+the surgeon pulled and twisted the long,
+black hairs on his hairy, bare arms, while he
+considered what he should do. He considered
+for five minutes, and then ordered the
+child to the operating room, and scrubbed
+and scrubbed his hands and his hairy arms,
+preparatory to a major operation. For the
+Belgian civilian, aged ten, had been shot
+through the abdomen by a German shell, or
+piece of shell, and there was nothing to do
+but try to remove it. It was a hopeless case,
+anyhow. The child would die without an
+operation, or he would die during the operation,
+or he would die after the operation.
+The French surgeon scrubbed his hands viciously,
+for he was still greatly incensed over
+the English authorities who had placed the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">- 67 -</a></span>
+case in his hands and then gone away again.
+They should have taken him to one of the
+English bases, St. Omer, or Hazebrouck&mdash;it
+was an imposition to have dumped him
+so unceremoniously here simply because
+&ldquo;here&rdquo; was so many kilometres nearer.
+&ldquo;Shirking,&rdquo; the surgeon called it, and was
+much incensed.</p>
+
+<p>After a most searching operation, the Belgian
+civilian was sent over to the ward, to
+live or die as circumstances determined.
+As soon as he came out of ether, he began to
+bawl for his mother. Being ten years of age,
+he was unreasonable, and bawled for her
+incessantly and could not be pacified. The
+patients were greatly annoyed by this disturbance,
+and there was indignation that the
+welfare and comfort of useful soldiers should
+be interfered with by the whims of a futile
+and useless civilian, a Belgian child at that.
+The nurse of that ward also made a fool of
+herself over this civilian, giving him far more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">- 68 -</a></span>
+attention than she had ever bestowed upon
+a soldier. She was sentimental, and his
+little age appealed to her&mdash;her sense of proportion
+and standard of values were all
+awrong. The <i>Directrice</i> appeared in the
+ward and tried to comfort the civilian, to
+still his howls, and then, after an hour of
+vain effort, she decided that his mother must
+be sent for. He was obviously dying, and
+it was necessary to send for his mother,
+whom alone of all the world he seemed to
+need. So a French ambulance, which had
+nothing to do with Belgian civilians, nor with
+Ypres, was sent over to Ypres late in the
+evening to fetch this mother for whom the
+Belgian civilian, aged ten, bawled so persistently.</p>
+
+<p>She arrived finally, and, it appeared, reluctantly.
+About ten o&rsquo;clock in the evening
+she arrived, and the moment she alighted
+from the big ambulance sent to fetch her,
+she began complaining. She had complained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">- 69 -</a></span>
+all the way over, said the chauffeur. She
+climbed down backward from the front seat,
+perched for a moment on the hub, while one
+heavy leg, with foot shod in slipping <i>sabot</i>,
+groped wildly for the ground. A soldier
+with a lantern watched impassively, watched
+her solid splash into a mud puddle that might
+have been avoided. So she continued her
+complaints. She had been dragged away
+from her husband, from her other children,
+and she seemed to have little interest in her
+son, the Belgian civilian, said to be dying.
+However, now that she was here, now that
+she had come all this way, she would go in
+to see him for a moment, since the <i>Directrice</i>
+seemed to think it so important. The <i>Directrice</i>
+of this French field hospital was an
+American, by marriage a British subject,
+and she had curious, antiquated ideas. She
+seemed to feel that a mother&rsquo;s place was with
+her child, if that child was dying. The
+<i>Directrice</i> had three children of her own whom<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">- 70 -</a></span>
+she had left in England over a year ago, when
+she came out to Flanders for the life and
+adventures of the Front. But she would
+have returned to England immediately,
+without an instant&rsquo;s hesitation, had she received
+word that one of these children was
+dying. Which was a point of view opposed
+to that of this Belgian mother, who seemed
+to feel that her place was back in Ypres, in
+her home, with her husband and other children.
+In fact, this Belgian mother had been
+rudely dragged away from her home, from
+her family, from certain duties that she
+seemed to think important. So she complained
+bitterly, and went into the ward most
+reluctantly, to see her son, said to be dying.</p>
+
+<p>She saw her son, and kissed him, and then
+asked to be sent back to Ypres. The <i>Directrice</i>
+explained that the child would not live
+through the night. The Belgian mother
+accepted this statement, but again asked to
+be sent back to Ypres. The <i>Directrice</i> again<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">- 71 -</a></span>
+assured the Belgian mother that her son
+would not live through the night, and asked
+her to spend the night with him in the ward,
+to assist at his passing. The Belgian woman
+protested.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If <i>Madame la Directrice</i> commands, if
+she insists, then I must assuredly obey. I
+have come all this distance because she commanded
+me, and if she insists that I spend
+the night at this place, then I must do so.
+Only if she does not insist, then I prefer to
+return to my home, to my other children
+at Ypres.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>However, the <i>Directrice</i>, who had a strong
+sense of a mother&rsquo;s duty to the dying, commanded
+and insisted, and the Belgian woman
+gave way. She sat by her son all night,
+listening to his ravings and bawlings, and
+was with him when he died, at three o&rsquo;clock
+in the morning. After which time, she requested
+to be taken back to Ypres. She
+was moved by the death of her son, but her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">- 72 -</a></span>
+duty lay at home. <i>Madame la Directrice</i>
+had promised to have a mass said at the
+burial of the child, which promise having
+been given, the woman saw no necessity for
+remaining.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My husband,&rdquo; she explained, &ldquo;has a
+little <i>estaminet</i>, just outside of Ypres. We
+have been very fortunate. Only yesterday,
+of all the long days of the war, of the many
+days of bombardment, did a shell fall into
+our kitchen, wounding our son, as you have
+seen. But we have other children to consider,
+to provide for. And my husband is
+making much money at present, selling drink
+to the English soldiers. I must return to
+assist him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>So the Belgian civilian was buried in the
+cemetery of the French soldiers, but many
+hours before this took place, the mother of
+the civilian had departed for Ypres. The
+chauffeur of the ambulance which was to
+convey her back to Ypres turned very white<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">- 73 -</a></span>
+when given his orders. Everyone dreaded
+Ypres, and the dangers of Ypres. It was
+the place of death. Only the Belgian woman,
+whose husband kept an <i>estaminet</i>, and made
+much money selling drink to the English
+soldiers, did not dread it. She and her husband
+were making much money out of the
+war, money which would give their children
+a start in life. When the ambulance was
+ready she climbed into it with alacrity, although
+with a feeling of gratitude because
+the <i>Directrice</i> had promised a mass for her
+dead child.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;These Belgians!&rdquo; said a French soldier.
+&ldquo;How prosperous they will be after the war!
+How much money they will make from the
+Americans, and from the others who come
+to see the ruins!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And as an afterthought, in an undertone,
+he added: <i>&ldquo;Ces sales Belges!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">- 74 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">- 75 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">- 76 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">- 77 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="THE_INTERVAL" id="THE_INTERVAL" href="#TOC6">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">THE INTERVAL</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>As an orderly, Erard wasn&rsquo;t much good.
+He never waited upon the patients
+if he could help it, and when he couldn&rsquo;t
+help it, he was so disagreeable that they
+wished they had not asked him for things.
+The newcomers, who had been in the hospital
+only a few days, used to think he was deaf,
+since he failed to hear their requests, and
+they did not like to yell at him, out of consideration
+for their comrades in the adjoining
+beds. Nor was he a success at sweeping
+the ward, since he did it with the broom in
+one hand and a copy of the <i>Petit Parisien</i>
+in the other&mdash;in fact, when he sat down on a
+bed away at the end and frankly gave himself
+up to a two-year-old copy of <i>Le Rire</i>, sent
+out with a lot of old magazines for the patients,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">- 78 -</a></span>
+he was no less effective than when he sulkily
+worked. There was just one thing he liked
+and did well, and that was to watch for the
+Generals. He was an expert in recognizing
+them when they were as yet a long way off.
+He used to slouch against the window panes
+and keep a keen eye upon the <i>trottoir</i> on such
+days or at such hours as the Generals were
+likely to appear. Upon catching sight of
+the oak-leaves in the distance, he would at
+once notify the ward, so that the orderlies
+and the nurse could tidy up things before the
+General made rounds. He had a very keen
+eye for oak-leaves&mdash;the golden oak-leaves
+on the General&rsquo;s <i>k&eacute;pi</i>&mdash;and he never by any
+chance gave a false alarm or mistook a colonel
+in the distance, and so put us to tidying up
+unnecessarily. He did not help with the
+work of course, but continued leaning against
+the window, reporting the General&rsquo;s progress
+up the <i>trottoir</i>&mdash;that he had now gone into
+Salle III.&mdash;that he had left Salle III. and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">- 79 -</a></span>
+was conversing outside Salle II.&mdash;that he
+was now, positively, on his way up the incline
+leading into Salle I., and would be upon us
+any minute. Sometimes the General lingered
+unnecessarily long on the incline, the
+wooden slope leading up to the ward, in
+which case he was not visible from the window,
+and Erard would amuse us by regretting
+that he had no periscope for the transom
+over the door.</p>
+
+<p>There were two Generals who visited the
+hospital. The big General, the important
+one, the Commander of the region, who was
+always beautiful to look upon in his tight,
+well-fitting black jacket, trimmed with astrakhan,
+who came from his limousine with a
+Normandy stick dangling from his wrist,
+and who wore spotless, clean gloves. This,
+the big General, came to decorate the men
+who were entitled to the <i>Croix de Guerre</i> and
+the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>, and after he had decorated
+one or two, as the case might be, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">- 80 -</a></span>
+usually continued on through the hospital,
+shaking hands here and there with the patients,
+and chatting with the <i>Directrice</i> and
+with the doctors and officers who followed in
+his wake. The other General was not nearly
+so imposing. He was short and fat and
+dressed in a grey-blue uniform, of the shade
+known as invisible, and his <i>k&eacute;pi</i> was hidden
+by a grey-blue cover, with a little square hole
+cut out in front, so that an inch of oak-leaves
+might be seen. He was much more formidable
+than the big General, however, since he
+was the <i>M&eacute;decin Inspecteur</i> of the region, and
+was responsible for all the hospitals thereabouts.
+He made rather extensive rounds,
+closely questioning the surgeons as to the
+wounds and treatment of each man, and as
+he was a doctor as well, he knew how to
+judge of the replies. Whereas the big General
+was a soldier and not a doctor, and was
+thus unable to ask any disconcerting questions,
+so that his visits, while tedious, were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">- 81 -</a></span>
+never embarrassing. When a General came
+on the place, it was a signal to down tools.
+The surgeons would hurriedly finish their
+operations, or postpone them if possible,
+and the dressings in the wards were also
+stopped or postponed, while the surgeons
+would hurry after the General, whichever
+one it was, and make deferential rounds
+with him, if it took all day. And as it usually
+took at least two hours, the visits of the
+Generals, one or both, meant considerable
+interruption to the hospital routine. Sometimes,
+by chance, both Generals arrived at
+the same time, which meant that there were
+double rounds, beginning at opposite ends
+of the enclosure, and the surgeons were in
+a quandary as to whose suite they should
+attach themselves. And the days when it was
+busiest, when the work was hardest, when
+there was more work than double the staff
+could accomplish in twenty-four hours, were
+the days that the Generals usually appeared.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">- 82 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>There are some days when it is very bad in
+a field hospital, just as there are some days
+when there is nothing to do, and the whole
+staff is practically idle. The bad days are
+those when the endless roar of the guns makes
+the little wooden <i>baracques</i> rock and rattle,
+and when endless processions of ambulances
+drive in and deliver broken, ruined men, and
+then drive off again, to return loaded with
+more wrecks. The beds in the <i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i>,
+where the ambulances unload, are
+filled with heaps under blankets. Coarse,
+hobnailed boots stick out from the blankets,
+and sometimes the heaps, which are men,
+moan or are silent. On the floor lie piles
+of clothing, filthy, muddy, blood-soaked, torn
+or cut from the silent bodies on the beds.
+The stretcher bearers step over these piles
+of dirty clothing, or kick them aside, as they
+lift the shrinking bodies to the brown stretchers,
+and carry them across, one by one, to
+the operating room. The operating room<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">- 83 -</a></span>
+is filled with stretchers, lying in rows upon
+the floor, waiting their turn to be emptied,
+to have their burdens lifted from them to
+the high operating tables. And as fast as
+the stretchers are emptied, the stretcher-bearers
+hurry back to the <i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i>,
+where the ambulances dump their loads, and
+come over to the operating room again, with
+fresh lots. Three tables going in the operating
+room, and the white-gowned surgeons
+stand so thick around the tables that you
+cannot see what is on them. There are
+stretchers lying on the floor of the corridor,
+and against the walls of the operating room,
+and more ambulances are driving in all the
+time.</p>
+
+<p>From the operating room they are brought
+into the wards, these bandaged heaps from
+the operating tables, these heaps that once
+were men. The clean beds of the ward are
+turned back to receive them, to receive the
+motionless, bandaged heaps that are lifted,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">- 84 -</a></span>
+shoved, or rolled from the stretchers to the
+beds. Again and again, all day long, the
+procession of stretchers comes into the wards.
+The foremost bearer kicks open the door with
+his knee, and lets in ahead of him a blast of
+winter rain, which sets dancing the charts
+and papers lying on the table, and blows out
+the alcohol lamp over which the syringe is
+boiling. Someone bangs the door shut. The
+unconscious form is loaded on the bed. He
+is heavy and the bed sags beneath his weight.
+The <i>brancardiers</i> gather up their red blankets
+and shuffle off again, leaving cakes of
+mud and streaks of muddy water on the
+green linoleum. Outside the guns roar and
+inside the <i>baracques</i> shake, and again and
+again the stretcher bearers come into the
+ward, carrying dying men from the high tables
+in the operating room. They are all that
+stand between us and the guns, these wrecks
+upon the beds. Others like them are standing
+between us and the guns, others like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">- 85 -</a></span>
+them, who will reach us before morning.
+Wrecks like these. They are old men, most
+of them. The old troops, grey and bearded.</p>
+
+<p>There is an attack going on. That does
+not mean that the Germans are advancing.
+It just means that the ambulances are busy,
+for these old troops, these old wrecks upon
+the beds, are holding up the Germans.
+Otherwise, we should be swept out of existence.
+Our hospital, ourselves, would be
+swept out of existence, were it not for these
+old wrecks upon the beds. These filthy,
+bearded, dying men upon the beds, who are
+holding back the Germans. More like them,
+in the trenches, are holding back the Germans.
+By tomorrow these others, too, will
+be with us, bleeding, dying. But there will
+be others like them in the trenches, to hold
+back the Germans.</p>
+
+<p>This is the day of an attack. Yesterday
+was the day of an attack. The day before
+was the day of an attack. The guns are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">- 86 -</a></span>
+raising Hell, seven kilometres beyond us,
+and our <i>baracques</i> shake and tremble with
+their thunder. These men, grey and bearded,
+dying in our clean beds, wetting our clean
+sheets with the blood that oozes from their
+dressings, have been out there, moaning in
+the trenches. When they die, we will pull
+off the bloody sheets, and replace them with
+fresh, clean ones, and turn them back neatly,
+waiting for the next agonizing man. We have
+many beds, and many fresh, clean sheets,
+and so we are always ready for these old,
+hairy men, who are standing between us and
+the Germans.</p>
+
+<p>They seem very weak and frail and thin.
+How can they do it, these old men? Last
+summer the young boys did it. Now it is
+the turn of these old men.</p>
+
+<p>There are three dying in the ward today.
+It will be better when they die. The German
+shells have made them ludicrous, repulsive.
+We see them in this awful interval,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">- 87 -</a></span>
+between life and death. This interval when
+they are gross, absurd, fantastic. Life is
+clean and death is clean, but this interval
+between the two is gross, absurd, fantastic.</p>
+
+<p>Over there, down at the end, is Rollin.
+He came in three days ago. A piece of shell
+penetrated his right eyelid, a little wound
+so small that it was not worth a dressing.
+Yet that little piece of <i>obus</i> lodged somewhere
+inside his skull, above his left ear, so the
+radiographist says, and he&rsquo;s paralyzed. Paralyzed
+all down the other side, and one supine
+hand flops about, and one supine leg flops
+about, in jerks. One bleary eye stays open,
+and the other eyelid stays shut, over the
+other bleary eye. Meningitis has set in and
+it won&rsquo;t be long now, before we&rsquo;ll have another
+empty bed. Yellow foam flows down
+his nose, thick yellow foam, bubbles of it,
+bursting, bubbling yellow foam. It humps
+up under his nose, up and up, in bubbles,
+and the bubbles burst and run in turgid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">- 88 -</a></span>
+streams down upon his shaggy beard. On
+the wall, above his bed, hang his medals.
+They are hung up, high up, so he can see
+them. He can&rsquo;t see them today, because
+now he is unconscious, but yesterday and
+the day before, before he got as bad as this,
+he could see them and it made him cry. He
+knew he had been decorated <i>in extremis</i>, because
+he was going to die, and he did not
+want to die. So he sobbed and sobbed all
+the while the General decorated him, and
+protested that he did not want to die. He&rsquo;d
+saved three men from death, earning those
+medals, and at the time he never thought
+of death himself. Yet in the ward he sobbed
+and sobbed, and protested that he did not
+want to die.</p>
+
+<p>Back of those red screens is Henri. He is
+a priest, mobilized as <i>infirmier</i>. A good one
+too, and very tender and gentle with the
+patients. He comes from the ward next
+door, Salle II., and is giving extreme unction<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">- 89 -</a></span>
+to the man in that bed, back of the red
+screens. Peek through the screens and you
+can see Henri, in his shirt sleeves, with a
+little, crumpled, purple stole around his
+neck. No, the patient has never regained
+consciousness since he&rsquo;s been here, but Henri
+says it&rsquo;s all right. He may be a Catholic.
+Better to take chances. It can&rsquo;t hurt him,
+anyway, if he isn&rsquo;t. I am glad Henri is
+back of those red screens. A few minutes
+ago he came down the ward, in search of
+absorbent cotton for the Holy Oils, and then
+he got so interested watching the doctors
+doing dressings, stayed so long watching
+them, that I thought he would not get back
+again, behind the screens, in time.</p>
+
+<p>See that man in the bed next? He&rsquo;s dying
+too. They trepanned him when he came.
+He can&rsquo;t speak, but we got his name and
+regiment from the medal on his wrist. He
+wants to write. Isn&rsquo;t it funny! He has a
+block of paper and a pencil, and all day long<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">- 90 -</a></span>
+he writes, writes, on the paper. Always and
+always, over and over again, he writes on the
+paper, and he gives the paper to everyone who
+passes. He&rsquo;s got something on his mind that
+he wants to get across, before he dies. But no
+one can understand him. No one can read
+what he has written&mdash;it is just scrawls, scribbles,
+unintelligible. Day and night, for he
+never sleeps, he writes on that block of paper,
+and tears off the sheets and gives them to
+everyone who passes. And no one can understand,
+for it is just illegible, unintelligible
+scribbles. Once we took the paper away to see
+what he would do and then he wrote with his
+finger upon the wooden frame of the screen.
+The same thing, scribbles, but they made no
+mark on the screen, and he seemed so distressed
+because they made no mark that
+we gave him back his paper again, and now
+he&rsquo;s happy. Or I suppose he&rsquo;s happy. He
+seems content when we take this paper and
+pretend to read it. He seems happy, scribbling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">- 91 -</a></span>
+those words that are words to him but
+not to us. Careful! Don&rsquo;t stand too close!
+He spits. Yes, all the time, at the end of
+every line he spits. Far too. Way across
+the ward. Don&rsquo;t you see that his bed and
+the bed next are covered with rubber sheets?
+That&rsquo;s because he spits. Big spits, too,
+far across the ward. And always he writes,
+incessantly, day and night. He writes on
+that block of paper and spits way across the
+ward at the end of every line. He&rsquo;s got
+something on his mind that he wants to get
+across. Do you think he&rsquo;s thinking of the
+Germans? He&rsquo;s dying though. He can&rsquo;t
+spit so far today as he did yesterday.</p>
+
+<p>Death is dignified and life is dignified, but
+the intervals are awful. They are ludicrous,
+repulsive.</p>
+
+<p>Is that Erard, calling? Calling that the
+Generals are coming, both of them, together?
+Hurry! Tidy up the ward! Rub away the
+froth from under Rollin&rsquo;s nose! Pull his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">- 92 -</a></span>
+sheets straight! Take that wet towel, and
+clean the mackintosh upon that bed and the
+bed adjoining. See if Henri&rsquo;s finished.
+Take away the screens. Pull the sheets
+straight. Tidy up the ward&mdash;tell the others
+not to budge! The Generals are coming!</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+9 May, 1916.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">- 93 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">- 94 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">- 95 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="WOMEN_AND_WIVES" id="WOMEN_AND_WIVES" href="#TOC7">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">WOMEN AND WIVES</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>A bitter wind swept in from the North
+Sea. It swept in over many miles of
+Flanders plains, driving gusts of rain before
+it. It was a biting gale by the time it reached
+the little cluster of wooden huts composing
+the field hospital, and rain and wind together
+dashed against the huts, blew under them,
+blew through them, crashed to pieces a swinging
+window down at the laundry, and loosened
+the roof of Salle I. at the other end of
+the enclosure. It was just ordinary winter
+weather, such as had lasted for months on
+end, and which the Belgians spoke of as vile
+weather, while the French called it vile
+Belgian weather. The drenching rain soaked
+into the long, green winter grass, and the
+sweeping wind was bitter cold, and the howling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">- 96 -</a></span>
+of the wind was louder than the guns, so
+that it was only when the wind paused for
+a moment, between blasts, that the rolling
+of the guns could be heard.</p>
+
+<p>In Salle I. the stove had gone out. It was
+a good little stove, but somehow was unequal
+to struggling with the wind which blew
+down the long, rocking stove pipe, and blew
+the fire out. So the little stove grew cold,
+and the hot water jug on the stove grew cold,
+and all the patients at that end of the ward
+likewise grew cold, and demanded hot water
+bottles, and there wasn&rsquo;t any hot water with
+which to fill them. So the patients complained
+and shivered, and in the pauses of
+the wind, one heard the guns.</p>
+
+<p>Then the roof of the ward lifted about an
+inch, and more wind beat down, and as it
+beat down, so the roof lifted. The orderly
+remarked that if this Belgian weather continued,
+by tomorrow the roof would be clean
+off&mdash;blown off into the German lines. So<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">- 97 -</a></span>
+all laughed as Fouquet said this, and wondered
+how they could lie abed with the roof of
+Salle I., the Salle of the <i>Grands Bless&eacute;s</i>, blown
+over into the German lines. The ward did
+not present a neat appearance, for all the
+beds were pushed about at queer angles, in
+from the wall, out from the wall, some
+touching each other, some very far apart,
+and all to avoid the little leaks of rain
+which streamed or dropped down from
+little holes in the roof. This weary, weary
+war! These long days of boredom in the
+hospital, these days of incessant wind and
+rain and cold.</p>
+
+<p>Armand, the chief orderly, ordered Fouquet
+to rebuild the fire, and Fouquet slipped
+on his <i>sabots</i> and clogged down the ward,
+away outdoors in the wind, and returned
+finally with a box of coal on his shoulders,
+which he dumped heavily on the floor. He
+was clumsy and sullen, and the coal was wet
+and mostly slate, and the patients laughed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">- 98 -</a></span>
+at his efforts to rebuild the fire. Finally,
+however, it was alight again, and radiated
+out a faint warmth, which served to bring
+out the smell of iodoform, and of draining
+wounds, and other smells which loaded the
+cold, close air. Then, no one knows who
+began it, one of the patients showed the nurse
+a photograph of his wife and child, and in
+a moment every man in the twenty beds was
+fishing back of his bed, in his <i>musette</i>, under
+his pillow, for photographs of his wife. They
+all had wives, it seems, for remember, these
+were the old troops, who had replaced the
+young Zouaves who had guarded this part
+of the Front all summer. One by one they
+came out, these photographs, from weatherbeaten
+sacks, from shabby boxes, from under
+pillows, and the nurse must see them all.
+Pathetic little pictures they were, of common,
+working-class women, some fat and work-worn,
+some thin and work-worn, some with
+stodgy little children grouped about them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">- 99 -</a></span>
+some without, but all were practically the
+same. They were the wives of these men
+in the beds here, the working-class wives of
+working-class men&mdash;the soldiers of the
+trenches. Ah yes, France is democratic.
+It is the Nation&rsquo;s war, and all the men of the
+Nation, regardless of rank, are serving. But
+some serve in better places than others.
+The trenches are mostly reserved for men of
+the working class, which is reasonable, as
+there are more of them.</p>
+
+<p>The rain beat down, and the little stove
+glowed, and the afternoon drew to a close,
+and the photographs of the wives continued
+to pass from hand to hand. There was much
+talk of home, and much of it was longing,
+and much of it was pathetic, and much of it
+was resigned. And always the little, ugly
+wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented
+home. And the words home and wife were
+interchangeable and stood for the same
+thing. And the glories and heroisms of war<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">- 100 -</a></span>
+seemed of less interest, as a factor in life,
+than these stupid little wives.</p>
+
+<p>Then Armand, the chief orderly, showed
+them all the photograph of his wife. No one
+knew that he was married, but he said yes,
+and that he received a letter from her every
+day&mdash;sometimes it was a postcard. Also
+that he wrote to her every day. We all
+knew how nervous he used to get, about
+letter time, when the <i>vaguemestre</i> made his
+rounds, every morning, distributing letters
+to all the wards. We all knew how impatient
+he used to get, when the <i>vaguemestre</i>
+laid his letter upon the table, and there it
+lay, on the table, while he was forced to
+make rounds with the surgeon, and could
+not claim it until long afterwards. So it
+was from his wife, that daily letter, so anxiously,
+so nervously awaited!</p>
+
+<p>Simon had a wife too. Simon, the young
+surgeon, German-looking in appearance, six
+feet of blond brute. But not blond brute<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">- 101 -</a></span>
+really. Whatever his appearance, there was
+in him something finer, something tenderer,
+something nobler, to distinguish him from
+the brute. About three times a week he
+walked into the ward with his fountain pen
+between his teeth&mdash;he did not smoke, but
+he chewed his fountain pen&mdash;and when the
+dressings were over, he would tell the nurse,
+shyly, accidentally, as it were, some little
+news about his home. Some little incident
+concerning his wife, some affectionate anecdote
+about his three young children. Once
+when one of the staff went over to London
+on vacation, Simon asked her to buy for his
+wife a leather coat, such as English women
+wear, for motoring. Always he thought of
+his wife, spoke of his wife, planned some
+thoughtful little surprise or gift for her.</p>
+
+<p>You know, they won&rsquo;t let wives come to
+the Front. Women can come into the War
+Zone, on various pretexts, but wives cannot.
+Wives, it appears, are bad for the morale of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">- 102 -</a></span>
+the Army. They come with their troubles,
+to talk of how business is failing, of how things
+are going to the bad at home, because of the
+war; of how great the struggle, how bitter
+the trials and the poverty and hardship.
+They establish the connecting link between
+the soldier and his life at home, his life that
+he is compelled to resign. Letters can be
+censored and all disturbing items cut out,
+but if a wife is permitted to come to the War
+Zone, to see her husband, there is no censoring
+the things she may tell him. The disquieting,
+disturbing things. So she herself
+must be censored, not permitted to come.
+So for long weary months men must remain
+at the Front, on active inactivity, and their
+wives cannot come to see them. Only other
+people&rsquo;s wives may come. It is not the
+woman but the wife that is objected to.
+There is a difference. In war, it is very
+great.</p>
+
+<p>There are many women at the Front.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">- 103 -</a></span>
+How do they get there, to the Zone of the
+Armies? On various pretexts&mdash;to see sick
+relatives, in such and such hospitals, or to
+see other relatives, brothers, uncles, cousins,
+other people&rsquo;s husbands&mdash;oh, there are many
+reasons which make it possible for them to
+come. And always there are the Belgian
+women, who live in the War Zone, for at
+present there is a little strip of Belgium left,
+and all the civilians have not been evacuated
+from the Army Zone. So there are plenty
+of women, first and last. Better ones for
+the officers, naturally, just as the officers&rsquo;
+mess is of better quality than that of the
+common soldiers. But always there are
+plenty of women. Never wives, who mean
+responsibility, but just women, who only
+mean distraction and amusement, just as
+food and wine. So wives are forbidden,
+because lowering to the morale, but women
+are winked at, because they cheer and refresh
+the troops. After the war, it is hoped that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">- 104 -</a></span>
+all unmarried soldiers will marry, but doubtless
+they will not marry these women who
+have served and cheered them in the War
+Zone. That, again, would be depressing to
+the country&rsquo;s morale. It is rather paradoxical,
+but there are those who can explain
+it perfectly.</p>
+
+<p>No, no, I don&rsquo;t understand. It&rsquo;s because
+everything has two sides. You would be
+surprised to pick up a franc, and find Liberty,
+Equality, and Fraternity on one side, and
+on the other, the image of the Sower smoothed
+out. A rose is a fine rose because of the
+manure you put at its roots. You don&rsquo;t
+get a medal for sustained nobility. You
+get it for the impetuous action of the moment,
+an action quite out of keeping with the trend
+of one&rsquo;s daily life. You speak of the young
+aviator who was decorated for destroying
+a Zeppelin single-handed, and in the next
+breath you add, and he killed himself, a few
+days later, by attempting to fly when he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">- 105 -</a></span>
+drunk. So it goes. There is a dirty sediment
+at the bottom of most souls. War,
+superb as it is, is not necessarily a filtering
+process, by which men and nations may be
+purified. Well, there are many people to write
+you of the noble side, the heroic side, the exalted
+side of war. I must write you of what
+I have seen, the other side, the backwash.
+They are both true. In Spain, they bang
+their silver coins upon a marble slab, accepting
+the stamp upon both sides, and then
+decide whether as a whole they ring true.</p>
+
+<p>Every now and then, Armand, the orderly,
+goes to the village to get a bath. He comes
+back with very clean hands and nails, and
+says that it has greatly solaced him, the warm
+water. Then later, that same evening, he
+gets permission to be absent from the hospital,
+and he goes to our village to a girl. But
+he is always as eager, as nervous for his wife&rsquo;s
+letter as ever. It is the same with Simon,
+the young surgeon. Only Simon keeps himself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">- 106 -</a></span>
+pretty clean at all times, as he has an
+orderly to bring him pitchers of hot water
+every morning, as many as he wants. But
+Simon has a girl in the village, to whom he
+goes every week. Only, why does he talk
+so incessantly about his wife, and show her
+pictures to me, to everyone about the place?
+Why should we all be bored with tales of
+Simon&rsquo;s stupid wife, when that&rsquo;s all she
+means to him? Only perhaps she means
+more. I told you I did not understand.</p>
+
+<p>Then the <i>Gestionnaire</i>, the little fat man
+in khaki, who is purveyor to the hospital.
+Every night he commandeers an ambulance,
+and drives back into the country, to a village
+twelve miles away, to sleep with a woman.
+And the old doctor&mdash;he is sixty-four and
+has grandchildren&mdash;he goes down to our
+village for a little girl of fourteen. He was
+decorated with the Legion of Honour the
+other day. It seems incongruous.</p>
+
+<p>Oh yes, of course these were decent girls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">- 107 -</a></span>
+at the start, at the beginning of the war.
+But you know women, how they run after
+men, especially when the men wear uniforms,
+all gilt buttons and braid. It&rsquo;s not the men&rsquo;s
+fault that most of the women in the War
+Zone are ruined. Have you ever watched
+the village girls when a regiment comes
+through, or stops for a night or two, <i>en repos</i>,
+on its way to the Front? Have you seen
+the girls make fools of themselves over the
+men? Well, that&rsquo;s why there are so many
+accessible for the troops. Of course the
+professional prostitutes from Paris aren&rsquo;t
+admitted to the War Zone, but the Belgian
+girls made such fools of themselves, the
+others weren&rsquo;t needed.</p>
+
+<p>Across the lines, back of the German lines,
+in the invaded districts, it is different. The
+conquering armies just ruined all the women
+they could get hold of. Any one will tell
+you that. <i>Ces sales Bosches!</i> For it is
+inconceivable how any decent girl, even a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">- 108 -</a></span>
+Belgian, could give herself up voluntarily
+to a Hun! They used force, those brutes!
+That is the difference. It&rsquo;s all the difference
+in the world. No, the women over there
+didn&rsquo;t make fools of themselves over those
+men&mdash;how could they! No, no. Over there,
+in the invaded districts, the Germans forced
+those girls. Here, on this side, the girls
+cajoled the men till they gave in. Can&rsquo;t
+you see? You must be pro-German! Any
+way, they are all ruined and not fit for any
+decent man to mate with, after the war.</p>
+
+<p>They are pretty dangerous, too, some of
+these women. No, I don&rsquo;t mean in that
+way. But they act as spies for the Germans
+and get a lot of information out of the men,
+and send it back, somehow, into the German
+lines. The Germans stop at nothing, nothing
+is too dastardly, too low, for them to
+attempt. There were two Belgian girls
+once, who lived together in a room, in a little
+village back of our lines. They were natives,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">- 109 -</a></span>
+and had always lived there, so of course
+they were not turned out, and when the
+village was shelled from time to time, they
+did not seem to mind and altogether they
+made a lot of money. They only received
+officers. The common soldiers were just
+dirt to them, and they refused to see them.
+Certain women get known in a place, as
+those who receive soldiers and those who
+receive officers. These girls were intelligent,
+too, and always asked a lot of intelligent,
+interested questions, and you know a man
+when he is excited will answer unsuspectingly
+any question put to him. The Germans
+took advantage of that. It is easy to be a
+spy. Just know what questions you must
+ask, and it is surprising how much information
+you can get. The thing is, to know
+upon what point information is wanted.
+These girls knew that, it seems, and so they
+asked a lot of intelligent questions, and as
+they received only officers, they got a good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">- 110 -</a></span>
+lot of valuable information, for as I say,
+when a man is excited he will answer many
+questions. Besides, who could have suspected
+at first that these two girls were spies?
+But they were, as they found out finally,
+after several months. Their rooms were
+one day searched, and a mass of incriminating
+papers were discovered. It seems the
+Germans had taken these girls from their
+families&mdash;held their families as hostages&mdash;and
+had sent them across into the English
+lines, with threats of vile reprisals upon their
+families if they did not produce information
+of value. Wasn&rsquo;t it beastly! Making these
+girls prostitutes and spies, upon pain of
+reprisals upon their families. The Germans
+knew they were so attractive that they would
+receive only officers. That they would
+receive many clients, of high rank, of much
+information, who would readily fall victims
+to their wiles. They are very vile themselves,
+these Germans. The curious thing is, how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">- 111 -</a></span>
+well they understand how to bait a trap for
+their enemies. In spite of having nothing
+in common with them, how well they understand
+the nature of those who are fighting
+in the name of Justice, of Liberty and
+Civilization.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+4 May, 1916.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">- 112 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">- 113 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">- 114 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">- 115 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="POUR_LA_PATRIE" id="POUR_LA_PATRIE" href="#TOC8">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">POUR LA PATRIE</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>This is how it was. It is pretty much
+always like this in a field hospital.
+Just ambulances rolling in, and dirty, dying
+men, and guns off there in the distance!
+Very monotonous, and the same, day after
+day, till one gets so tired and bored. Big
+things may be going on over there, on the
+other side of the captive balloons that we
+can see from a distance, but we are always
+here, on this side of them, and here, on this
+side of them, it is always the same. The
+weariness of it&mdash;the sameness of it! The
+same ambulances, and dirty men, and groans,
+or silence. The same hot operating rooms,
+the same beds, always full, in the wards.
+This is war. But it goes on and on, over
+and over, day after day, till it seems like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">- 116 -</a></span>
+life. Life in peace time. It might be life
+in a big city hospital, so alike is the routine.
+Only the city hospitals are bigger, and better
+equipped, and the ambulances are smarter,
+and the patients don&rsquo;t always come in ambulances&mdash;they
+walk in sometimes, or come
+in street cars, or in limousines, and they are
+of both sexes, men and women, and have
+ever so many things the matter with them&mdash;the
+hospitals of peace time are not nearly
+so stupid, so monotonous, as the hospitals
+of war. Bah! War&rsquo;s humane compared
+to peace! More spectacular, I grant you,
+more acute,&mdash;that&rsquo;s what interests us,&mdash;but
+for the sheer agony of life&mdash;oh, peace is way
+ahead!</p>
+
+<p>War is so clean. Peace is so dirty. There
+are so many foul diseases in peace times.
+They drag on over so many years, too. No,
+war&rsquo;s clean! I&rsquo;d rather see a man die in
+prime of life, in war time, than see him doddering
+along in peace time, broken hearted,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">- 117 -</a></span>
+broken spirited, life broken, and very weary,
+having suffered many things,&mdash;to die at
+last, at a good, ripe age! How they have
+suffered, those who drive up to our city
+hospitals in limousines, in peace time. What&rsquo;s
+been saved them, those who die young,
+and clean and swiftly, here behind the
+guns. In the long run it dots up just
+the same. Only war&rsquo;s spectacular, that&rsquo;s
+all.</p>
+
+<p>Well, he came in like the rest, only older
+than most of them. A shock of iron-grey
+hair, a mane of it, above heavy, black brows,
+and the brows were contracted in pain.
+Shot, as usual, in the abdomen. He spent
+three hours on the table after admission&mdash;the
+operating table&mdash;and when he came over
+to the ward, they said, not a dog&rsquo;s chance
+for him. No more had he. When he came
+out of ether, he said he didn&rsquo;t want to die.
+He said he wanted to live. Very much. He
+said he wanted to see his wife again and his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">- 118 -</a></span>
+children. Over and over he insisted on this,
+insisted on getting well. He caught hold
+of the doctor&rsquo;s hand and said he must get
+well, that the doctor must get him well.
+Then the doctor drew away his slim fingers
+from the rough, imploring grasp, and told
+him to be good and patient.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Be good! Be patient!&rdquo; said the doctor,
+and that was all he could say, for he was
+honest. What else could he say, knowing
+that there were eighteen little holes, cut by
+the bullet, leaking poison into that gashed,
+distended abdomen? When these little holes,
+that the doctor could not stop, had leaked
+enough poison into his system, he would die.
+Not today, no, but day after tomorrow.
+Three days more.</p>
+
+<p>So all that first day, the man talked of
+getting well. He was insistent on that. He
+was confident. Next day, the second of the
+three days the doctor gave him, very much
+pain laid hold of him. His black brows<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">- 119 -</a></span>
+bent with pain and he grew puzzled. How
+could one live with such pain as that?</p>
+
+<p>That afternoon, about five o&rsquo;clock, came
+the General. The one who decorates the
+men. He had no sword, just a riding whip,
+so he tossed the whip on the bed, for you
+can&rsquo;t do an accolade with anything but a
+sword. Just the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>. Not
+the other one. But the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>
+carries a pension of a hundred francs a year,
+so that&rsquo;s something. So the General said,
+very briefly: &ldquo;In the name of the Republic
+of France, I confer upon you the <i>M&eacute;daille
+Militaire</i>.&rdquo; Then he bent over and kissed
+the man on his forehead, pinned the medal
+to the bedspread, and departed.</p>
+
+<p>There you are! Just a brief little ceremony,
+and perfunctory. We all got that
+impression. The General has decorated so
+many dying men. And this one seemed so
+nearly dead. He seemed half-conscious.
+Yet the General might have put a little more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">- 120 -</a></span>
+feeling into it, not made it quite so perfunctory.
+Yet he&rsquo;s done this thing so many,
+many times before. It&rsquo;s all right, he does
+it differently when there are people about,
+but this time there was no one present&mdash;just
+the doctor, the dying man, and me. And so
+we four knew what it meant&mdash;just a widow&rsquo;s
+pension. Therefore there wasn&rsquo;t any reason
+for the accolade, for the sonorous, ringing
+phrases of a dress parade&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>We all knew what it meant. So did the
+man. When he got the medal, he knew too.
+He knew there wasn&rsquo;t any hope. I held the
+medal before him, after the General had
+gone, in its red plush case. It looked cheap,
+somehow. The exchange didn&rsquo;t seem even.
+He pushed it aside with a contemptuous
+hand sweep, a disgusted shrug.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen these things before!&rdquo; he
+exclaimed. We all had seen them too.
+We all knew about them, he and the doctor,
+and the General and I. He knew and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">- 121 -</a></span>
+understood, most of all. And his tone was
+bitter.</p>
+
+<p>After that, he knew the doctor couldn&rsquo;t
+save him, and that he should not see his wife
+and children again. Whereupon he became
+angry with the treatment, and protested
+against it. The <i>picqures</i> hurt&mdash;they hurt
+very much, and he did not want them. Moreover,
+they did no good, for his pain was now
+very intense, and he tossed and tossed to
+get away from it.</p>
+
+<p>So the third day dawned, and he was alive,
+and dying, and knew that he was dying.
+Which is unusual and disconcerting. He
+turned over and over, and black fluid vomited
+from his mouth into the white enamel basin.
+From time to time, the orderly emptied the
+basin, but always there was more, and always
+he choked and gasped and knit his brows in
+pain. Once his face broke up as a child&rsquo;s
+breaks up when it cries. So he cried in pain
+and loneliness and resentment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">- 122 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He struggled hard to hold on. He wanted
+very much to live, but he could not do it.
+He said: &ldquo;<i>Je ne tiens plus.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Which was true. He couldn&rsquo;t hold on.
+The pain was too great. He clenched his
+hands and writhed, and cried out for mercy.
+But what mercy had we? We gave him
+morphia, but it did not help. So he continued
+to cry to us for mercy, he cried to us
+and to God. Between us, we let him suffer
+eight hours more like that, us and God.</p>
+
+<p>Then I called the priest. We have three
+priests on the ward, as orderlies, and I got
+one of them to give him the Sacrament. I
+thought it would quiet him. We could not
+help him with drugs, and he had not got
+it quite in his head that he must die, and
+when he said, &ldquo;I am dying,&rdquo; he expected to
+be contradicted. So I asked Capolarde to
+give him the Sacrament, and he said yes,
+and put a red screen around the bed, to
+screen him from the ward. Then Capolarde<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">- 123 -</a></span>
+turned to me and asked me to leave. It was
+summer time. The window at the head of
+the bed was open, the hay outside was new
+cut and piled into little haycocks. Over in
+the distance the guns rolled. As I turned
+to go, I saw Capolarde holding a tray of Holy
+Oils in one hand, while with the other he
+emptied the basin containing black vomitus
+out the window.</p>
+
+<p>No, it did not bring him comfort, or resignation.
+He fought against it. He wanted to
+live, and he resented Death, very bitterly.
+Down at my end of the ward&mdash;it was a silent,
+summer afternoon&mdash;I heard them very clearly.
+I heard the low words from behind the screen.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Dites: &lsquo;Dieu je vous donne ma vie librement
+pour ma patrie&rsquo;&rdquo;</i> (God, I give you my
+life freely for my country). The priests
+usually say that to them, for death has more
+dignity that way. It is not in the ritual,
+but it makes a soldier&rsquo;s death more noble.
+So I suppose Capolarde said it. I could only<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">- 124 -</a></span>
+judge by the response. I could hear the heavy,
+laboured breath, the choking, wailing cry.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Oui! Oui!&rdquo;</i> gasped out at intervals.
+<i>&ldquo;Ah mon Dieu! Oui!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>Again the mumbling, guiding whisper.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Oui&mdash;oui!&rdquo;</i> came sobbing, gasping, in
+response.</p>
+
+<p>So I heard the whispers, the priest&rsquo;s whispers,
+and the stertorous choke, the feeble,
+wailing, rebellious wailing in response. He
+was being forced into it. Forced into acceptance.
+Beaten into submission, beaten into
+resignation.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Oui, oui&rdquo;</i> came the protesting moans.
+<i>&ldquo;Ah, oui!&rdquo;</i></p>
+
+<p>It must be dawning upon him now. Capolarde
+is making him see.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Oui! Oui!&rdquo;</i> The choking sobs reach
+me. <i>&ldquo;Ah, mon Dieu, oui!&rdquo;</i> Then very
+deep, panting, crying breaths:</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Dieu&mdash;je&mdash;vous&mdash;donne&mdash;ma&mdash;vie&mdash;librement&mdash;pour&mdash;ma&mdash;patrie!&rdquo;</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">- 125 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Librement! Librement! Ah, oui! Oui!&rdquo;</i>
+He was beaten at last. The choking, dying,
+bewildered man had said the noble words.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;God, I give you my life freely for my
+country!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After which came a volley of low toned
+Latin phrases, rattling in the stillness like
+the popping of a <i>mitrailleuse</i>.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Two hours later he was still alive, restless,
+but no longer resentful. &ldquo;It is difficult to
+go,&rdquo; he murmured, and then: &ldquo;Tonight, I
+shall sleep well.&rdquo; A long pause followed, and
+he opened his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Without doubt, the next world is more
+<i>chic</i> than this,&rdquo; he remarked smiling, and
+then:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was mobilized against my inclination.
+Now I have won the <i>M&eacute;daille Militaire</i>.
+My Captain won it for me. He made me
+brave. He had a revolver in his hand.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">- 126 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">- 127 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">- 128 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">- 129 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="LOCOMOTOR_ATAXIA" id="LOCOMOTOR_ATAXIA" href="#TOC9">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>Just inside the entrance gates a big, flat-topped
+tent was pitched, which bore
+over the low door a signboard on which was
+painted, <i>Triage No. 1. Malades et Bless&eacute;s
+Assis</i>. This meant that those <i>assis</i>, able
+to travel in the ambulances as &ldquo;sitters,&rdquo;
+were to be deposited here for diagnosis and
+classification. Over beyond was the <i>Salle
+d&rsquo;Attente</i>, the hut for receiving the <i>grands
+bless&eacute;s</i>, but a tent was sufficient for sick men
+and those slightly wounded. It was an old
+tent, weatherbeaten, a dull, dirty grey.
+Within the floor was of earth, and along
+each side ran long, narrow, backless benches,
+on which the sick men and the slightly
+wounded sat, waiting sorting. A grey
+twilight pervaded the interior, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">- 130 -</a></span>
+everlasting Belgian rain beat down upon
+the creaking canvas, beat down in gentle,
+dripping patters, or in hard, noisy gusts, as
+it happened. It was always dry inside,
+however, and the earth floor was dusty,
+except at the entrance, where a triangle of
+mud projected almost to the doctor&rsquo;s table,
+in the middle.</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i> was different. It was
+more comfortable. The seriously wounded
+were unloaded carefully and placed upon
+beds covered with rubber sheeting, and clean
+sacking, which protected the thin mattresses
+from blood. The patients were afterwards
+covered with red blankets, and stone hot
+water bottles were also given them, sometimes.
+But in the sorting tent there were
+no such comforts. They were not needed.
+The sick men and the slightly wounded could
+sit very well on the backless benches till the
+<i>M&eacute;decin Major</i> had time to come and examine
+them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">- 131 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Quite a company of &ldquo;sitters&rdquo; were assembled
+here one morning, helped out of two
+big ambulances that drove in within ten
+minutes of each other. They were a dejected
+lot, and they stumbled into the tent unsteadily,
+groping towards the benches, upon which
+they tried to pose their weary, old, fevered
+bodies in comfortable attitudes. And as it
+couldn&rsquo;t be done, there was a continual
+shifting movement, and unrest. Heavy legs
+in heavy wet boots were shoved stiffly forward,
+then dragged back again. Old, thin
+bodies bent forward, twisted sideways,
+coarse, filthy hands hung supine between
+spread knees, and then again the hands
+would change, and support whiskered, discouraged
+faces. They were all uncouth,
+grotesque, dejected, and they smelt abominably,
+these <i>poilus</i>, these hairy, unkempt
+soldiers. At their feet, their sacks lay,
+bulging with their few possessions. They
+hadn&rsquo;t much, but all they had lay there, at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">- 132 -</a></span>
+their feet. Old brown canvas sacks, bulging,
+muddy, worn, worn-out, like their owners.
+Tied on the outside were water cans,
+and extra boots, and bayonets, and inside
+were socks and writing paper and photographs
+of ugly wives. Therefore the ungainly sacks
+were precious, and they hugged them with
+their tired feet, afraid that they might lose
+them.</p>
+
+<p>Then finally the <i>Major</i> arrived, and began
+the business of sorting them. He was brisk
+and alert, and he called them one by one to
+stand before him. They shuffled up to his
+little table, wavering, deprecating, humble,
+and answered his brief impatient questions.
+And on the spot he made snap diagnoses,
+such as rheumatism, bronchitis, kicked by a
+horse, knocked down by despatch rider,
+dysentery, and so on&mdash;a paltry, stupid lot
+of ailments and minor accidents, demanding
+a few days&rsquo; treatment. It was a dull service,
+this medical service, yet one had to be always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">- 133 -</a></span>
+on guard against contagion, so the service was
+a responsible one. But the <i>Major</i> worked
+quickly, sorted them out hastily, and then
+one by one they disappeared behind a hanging
+sheet, where the orderlies took off their
+old uniforms, washed the patients a little,
+and then led them to the wards. It was a
+stupid service! So different from that of
+the <i>grands bless&eacute;s!</i> There was some interest
+in that! But this <i>&eacute;clop&eacute;</i> business, these
+minor ailments, this stream of petty sickness,
+petty accidents, dirty skin diseases, and
+vermin&mdash;all war, if you like, but how <i>banale!</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>Later, in the medical wards, the <i>Major</i>
+made his rounds, to inspect more carefully
+the men upon whom he had made snap diagnoses,
+to correct the diagnosis, if need be,
+and to order treatment. The chief treatment
+they needed was a bath, a clean bed,
+and a week of sleep, but the doctor, being
+fairly conscientious, thought to hurry things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">- 134 -</a></span>
+a little, to hasten the return of these old,
+tired men to the trenches, so that they might
+come back to the hospital again as <i>grands
+bless&eacute;s</i>. In which event they would be
+interesting. So he ordered <i>ventouses</i> or
+cupping, for the bronchitis cases. There is
+much bronchitis in Flanders, in the trenches,
+because of the incessant Belgian rain. They
+are sick with it too, poor devils. So said the
+<i>Major</i> to himself as he made his rounds.</p>
+
+<p>Five men here, lying in a row, all ptomaine
+poisoning, due to some rank tinned stuff
+they&rsquo;d been eating. Yonder there, three
+men with itch&mdash;filthy business! Their hands
+all covered with it, tearing at their bodies
+with their black, claw-like nails! The orderlies
+had not washed them very thoroughly&mdash;small
+blame to them! So the <i>Major</i> made
+his rounds, walking slowly, very bored, but
+conscientious. These dull wrecks were
+needed in the trenches. He must make
+them well.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">- 135 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>At Bed 9, Andr&eacute; stopped. Something
+different this time? He tried to recall it.
+Oh yes&mdash;in the sorting tent he&rsquo;d noticed&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;Monsieur Major!&rdquo;</i> A thin hand, clean
+and slim, rose to the salute. The bed covers
+were very straight, sliding neither to this
+side nor to that, as covers slide under restless
+pain.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot walk, <i>Monsieur Major</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>So Andr&eacute; stopped, attentive. The man
+continued.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot walk, <i>Monsieur Major</i>. Because
+of that, from the trenches I was removed
+a month ago. After that I was given
+a <i>fourgon</i>, a wagon in which to transport
+the loaves of bread. But soon it arrived
+that I could not climb to the high seat of my
+wagon, nor could I mount to the saddle of
+my horse. So I was obliged to lead my
+horses, stumbling at their bridles. So I have
+stumbled for the past four weeks. But now
+I cannot even do that. It is very painful.&rdquo;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">- 136 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Andr&eacute; passed a hand over his short, thick,
+upright hair, and smoothed his stiff brush
+reflectively. Then he put questions to the
+man, confidentially, and at the answers continued
+to rub backward his tight brush of
+hair. After which he disappeared from the
+ward for a time, but returned presently,
+bringing with him a Paris surgeon who happened
+to be visiting the Front that day.
+There also came with him another little
+doctor of the hospital staff, who was interested
+in what Andr&eacute; had told him of the
+case. The three stood together at the foot
+of the bed, stroking their beards and their
+hair meditatively, while they plied the patient
+with questions. After which they directed
+Alphonse, the swarthy, dark orderly, who
+looked like a brigand, and Henri, the priest-orderly,
+to help the patient to rise.</p>
+
+<p>They stood him barefoot upon the floor,
+supporting him slightly by each elbow. To
+his knees, or just above them, fell a scant,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">- 137 -</a></span>
+gay, pink flannel nightshirt, his sole garment.
+It was one of many warm, gay nightshirts,
+pink and cheerful, that some women of
+America had sent over to the wounded heroes
+of France. It made a bright spot of colour
+in the sombre ward, and through the open
+window, one caught glimpses of green hop
+fields, and a windmill in the distance, waving
+its slow arms.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Walk,&rdquo; commanded Andr&eacute;. &ldquo;Walk to
+the door. Turn and return.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The man staggered between the beds,
+holding to them, half bent over, fearful.
+Cool summer air blew in through the window,
+waving the pink nightshirt, making goose
+flesh rise on the shapely white legs that
+wavered. Then he moved down the ward,
+between the rows of beds, moving with uncertain,
+running, halting steps. Upon the
+linoleum, his bare feet flapped in soft thumps,
+groping wildly, interfering, knocking against
+each other. The man, trying to control<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">- 138 -</a></span>
+them, gazed in fright from side to side.
+Down to the door he padded, rocked, swayed,
+turned and almost fell. Then back again
+he flapped.</p>
+
+<p>Dense stillness in the ward, broken only
+by the hard, unsteady thumping of the bare
+feet. The feet masterless, as the spirit had
+been masterless, years ago. The three judges
+in white blouses stood with arms folded,
+motionless. The patients in the beds sat
+up and tittered. The man who had been
+kicked by a horse raised himself and smiled.
+He who had been knocked down by a despatch
+rider sat up, as did those with
+bronchitis, and those with ptomaine
+poisoning. They sat up, looked, and sniggered.
+They knew. So did Andr&eacute;. So
+did the Paris surgeon, and the little staff
+doctor, and the swarthy orderly and the
+priest-orderly. They all knew. The patient
+knew too. The laughter of his comrades
+told him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">- 139 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>So he was to be released from the army,
+physically unfit. He could no longer serve
+his country. For many months he had faced
+death under the guns, a glorious death.
+Now he was to face death in another form.
+Not glorious, shameful. Only he didn&rsquo;t
+know much about it, and couldn&rsquo;t visualize
+it&mdash;after all, he might possibly escape. He
+who had so loved life. So he was rather
+pleased to be released from service.</p>
+
+<p>The patients in the surrounding beds
+ceased laughing. They had other things to
+think about. As soon as they were cured of
+the dysentery and of the itch, they were
+going back again to the trenches, under the
+guns. So they pitied themselves, and they
+rather envied him, being released from the
+army. They didn&rsquo;t know much about it,
+either. They couldn&rsquo;t visualize an imbecile,
+degrading, lingering death. They could only
+comprehend escape from sudden death, under
+the guns.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">- 140 -</a></span></p>
+
+<p>One way or another, it is about the same.
+Tragedy either way, and death either way.
+But the tragedies of peace equal the tragedies
+of war. The sum total of suffering is the
+same. They balance up pretty well.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+18 June, 1916.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">- 141 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">- 142 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">- 143 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="A_SURGICAL_TRIUMPH" id="A_SURGICAL_TRIUMPH" href="#TOC10">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">A SURGICAL TRIUMPH</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>In the Latin Quarter, somewhere about
+the intersection of the Boulevard Montparnasse
+with the rue de Rennes&mdash;it might
+have been even a little way back of the Gare
+Montparnasse, or perhaps in the other direction
+where the rue Vabin cuts into the rue
+Notre-Dame-des-Champs&mdash;any one who
+knows the Quarter will know about it at
+once&mdash;there lived a little hairdresser by the
+name of Antoine. Some ten years ago
+Antoine had moved over from Montmartre,
+for he was a good hairdresser and a thrifty
+soul, and he wanted to get on in life, and at
+that time nothing seemed to him so profitable
+an investment as to set up a shop in the
+neighbourhood patronized by Americans.
+American students were always wanting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">- 144 -</a></span>
+their hair washed, so he was told&mdash;once a
+week at least&mdash;and in that they differed from
+the Russian and Polish and Roumanian and
+other students of Paris, a fact which determined
+Antoine to go into business at the
+Montparnasse end of the Quarter, rather
+than at the lower end, say round the Pantheon
+and Saint-Etienne-du-Mont. And as
+he determined to put his prices low, in order
+to catch the trade, so later on when his business
+thrived enormously, he continued to
+keep them low, in order to maintain his
+clients. For if you once get used to having
+your hair washed for two francs, and very
+well done at that, it is annoying to find that
+the price has gone up over night to the prices
+one pays on the Boulevard Capucines.
+Therefore for ten years Antoine continued
+to wash hair at two francs a head, and at the
+same time he earned quite a reputation for
+himself as a marvellous good person when it
+came to waves and curls. So that when the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">- 145 -</a></span>
+war broke out, and his American clients
+broke and ran, he had a neat, tidy sum saved
+up, and could be fairly complacent about it
+all. Moreover, he was a lame man, one leg
+being some three inches shorter than the
+other, due to an accident in childhood, so he
+had never done his military service in his
+youth, and while not over military age, even
+yet, there was no likelihood of his ever being
+called upon to do it. So he stood in the
+doorway of his deserted shop, for all his
+young assistants, his curlers and shampooers,
+had been mobilized, and looked up and down
+the deserted street, and congratulated himself
+that he was not in as bad a plight,
+financially and otherwise, as some of his
+neighbours.</p>
+
+<p>Next door to him was a restaurant where
+the students ate, many of them. It had
+enjoyed a high reputation for cheapness, up
+to the war, and twice a day had been thronged
+with a mixed crowd of sculptors and painters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">- 146 -</a></span>
+and writers, and just dilettantes, which
+latter liked to patronize it for what they were
+pleased to call &ldquo;local colour.&rdquo; Well, look
+at it now, thought the thrifty Antoine.
+Everyone gone, except a dozen stranded
+students who had not money enough to
+escape, and who, in the kindness of their
+hearts, continued to eat here &ldquo;on credit,&rdquo;
+in order to keep the proprietor going. Even
+such a fool as the proprietor must see, sooner
+or later, that patronage of this sort could
+lead nowhere, from the point of view of
+profits&mdash;in fact, it was ridiculous.</p>
+
+<p>Antoine, lounging in his doorway, thought
+of his son. His only son, who, thank God,
+was too young to enter the army. By the
+time he was old enough for his military
+service, the war would all be over&mdash;it could
+not last, at the outside, more than six weeks
+or a couple of months&mdash;so Antoine had no
+cause for anxiety on that account. The lad
+was a fine, husky youth, with a sprouting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">- 147 -</a></span>
+moustache, which made him look older than
+his seventeen years. He was being taught
+the art of washing hair, and of curling and
+dyeing the same, on the human head or aside
+from it, as the case might be, and he could
+snap curling irons with a click to inspire
+confidence in the minds of the most fastidious,
+so altogether, thought Antoine, he had a good
+future before him. So the war had no terrors
+for Antoine, and he was able to speculate
+freely upon the future of his son, which
+seemed like a very bright, admirable future
+indeed, in spite of the disturbances of the
+moment. Nor did he need to close the doors
+of his establishment either, in spite of the
+loss of his assistants, and the loss of his
+many customers who kept those assistants as
+well as himself busy. For there still remained
+in Paris a good many American heads
+to be washed, from time to time&mdash;rather
+foolhardy, adventurous heads, curious,
+sensation hunting heads, who had remained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">- 148 -</a></span>
+in Paris to see the war, or as much of it as
+they could, in order to enrich their own personal
+experience. With which point of view
+Antoine had no quarrel, although there
+were certain of his countrymen who wished
+these inquisitive foreigners would return to
+their native land, for a variety of reasons.</p>
+
+<p>As the months rolled along, however, he
+who had been so farseeing, so thrifty a business
+man, seemed to have made a mistake.
+His calculations as to the duration of the
+war all went wrong. It seemed to be lasting
+an unconscionable time, and every day it
+seemed to present new phases for which no
+immediate settlement offered itself. Thus a
+year dragged away, and Antoine&rsquo;s son
+turned eighteen, and his moustache grew to
+be so imposing that his father commanded
+him to shave it. At the end of another two
+months, Antoine found it best to return his
+son to short trousers, for although the boy
+was stout and fat, he was not tall, and in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">- 149 -</a></span>
+short trousers he looked merely an overgrown
+fat boy, and Antoine was growing rather
+worried as he saw the lads of the young
+classes called to the colours. Somewhere,
+in one of the <i>Mairies</i> of Paris&mdash;over at Montmartre,
+perhaps, where he had come from,
+or at the <i>Pr&eacute;fecture de Police</i>, or the <i>Cit&eacute;</i>&mdash;Antoine
+knew that there a record of his son&rsquo;s
+age and attainments, which might be used
+against him at any moment, and as the
+weeks grew into months, it seemed certain
+that the class to which this precious son
+belonged would be called on for military
+service. Then very hideous weeks followed
+for Antoine, weeks of nervous suspense and
+dread. Day by day, as the lad grew in
+proficiency and aptitude, as he became more
+and more expert in the matters of his trade,
+as he learned a delicate, sure touch with the
+most refractory hair, and could expend the
+minimum of gas on the drying machine, and
+the minimum of soap lather, and withal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">- 150 -</a></span>
+attain the best results in pleasing his customers,
+so grew the danger of his being snatched
+away from this wide life spread out before
+him, of being forced to fight for his glorious
+country. Poor fat boy! On Sundays he
+used to parade the Raspail with a German
+shepherd dog at his heels&mdash;bought two years
+ago as a German shepherd, but now called
+a Belgian Police dog&mdash;how could he lay aside
+his little trousers and become a soldier of
+France! Yet every day that time drew
+nearer, till finally one day the summons
+came, and the lad departed, and Antoine
+closed his shutters for a whole week, mourning
+desperately. And he was furious against
+England, which had not made her maximum
+effort, had not mobilized her men, had continued
+with business as usual, had made no
+attempt to end the war&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t do so,
+until France had become exhausted. And
+he was furious against Russia, swamped in a
+bog of political intrigue, which lacked organization<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">- 151 -</a></span>
+and munitions and leadership, and
+was totally unable to drawing off the Bosches
+on the other frontier, and delivering a blow
+to smash them. In fact, Antoine was far
+more furious against the Allies of France than
+against Germany itself. And his rage and
+grief absolutely overbalanced his pride in his
+son, or his ambitions as to his son&rsquo;s possible
+achievements. The boy himself did not
+mind going, when he was called, for he was
+something of a fatalist, being so young, and
+besides, he could not foresee things. But
+Antoine, little lame man, had much imagination
+and foresaw a great deal.</p>
+
+<p>Mercifully, he could not foresee what
+actually happened. Thus it was a shock to
+him. He learned that his son was wounded,
+and then followed many long weeks while
+the boy lay in hospital, during which time
+many kind-hearted Red Cross ladies wrote
+to Antoine, telling him to be of brave heart
+and of good courage. And Antoine, being<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">- 152 -</a></span>
+a rich man, in a small hairdressing way,
+took quite large sums of money out of the
+bank from time to time, and sent them to the
+Red Cross ladies, to buy for his son whatever
+might be necessary to his recovery. He
+heard from the hospital in the interior&mdash;for
+they were taking most of the wounded to
+the interior, at that time, for fear of upsetting
+Paris by the sight of them in the streets&mdash;that
+artificial legs were costly. Thus he
+steeled himself to the fact that his son would
+be more hideously lame than he himself.
+There was some further consultation about
+artificial arms, rather vague, but Antoine
+was troubled. Then he learned that a marvellous
+operation had been performed upon
+the boy, known as plastic surgery, that is to
+say, the rebuilding, out of other parts of the
+body, of certain features of the face that are
+missing. All this while he heard nothing
+directly from the lad himself, and in every
+letter from the Red Cross ladies, dictated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">- 153 -</a></span>
+to them, the boy begged that neither his
+father nor his mother would make any attempt
+to visit him at the hospital, in the
+interior, till he was ready.</p>
+
+<p>Finally, the lad was &ldquo;ready.&rdquo; He had
+been four or five months in hospital, and the
+best surgeons of the country had done for
+him the best they knew. They had not
+only saved his life, but, thanks to his father&rsquo;s
+money, he had been fitted out with certain
+artificial aids to the human body which
+would go far towards making life supportable.
+In fact, they expressed themselves as extremely
+gratified with what they had been
+able to do for the poor young man, nay,
+they were even proud of him. He was a surgical
+triumph, and as such they were returning
+him to Paris, by such and such a
+train, upon such and such a day. Antoine
+went to meet the train.</p>
+
+<p>In a little room back of the hairdressing
+shop, Antoine looked down upon the surgical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">- 154 -</a></span>
+triumph. This triumph was his son. The
+two were pretty well mixed up. A passion
+of love and a passion of furious resentment
+filled the breast of the little hairdresser.
+Two very expensive, very good artificial
+legs lay on the sofa beside the boy. They
+were nicely jointed and had cost several
+hundred francs. From the same firm it
+would also be possible to obtain two very
+nice artificial arms, light, easily adjustable,
+well hinged. A hideous flabby heap, called
+a nose, fashioned by unique skill out of the
+flesh of his breast, replaced the little snub
+nose that Antoine remembered. The mouth
+they had done little with. All the front teeth
+were gone, but these could doubtless be
+replaced, in time, by others. Across the
+lad&rsquo;s forehead was a black silk bandage,
+which could be removed later, and in his
+pocket there was an address from which
+artificial eyes might be purchased. They
+would have fitted him out with eyes, in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">- 155 -</a></span>
+provinces, except that such were better obtainable
+in Paris. Antoine looked down
+upon this wreck of his son that lay before
+him, and the wreck, not appreciating that he
+was a surgical triumph, kept sobbing, kept
+weeping out of his sightless eyes, kept jerking
+his four stumps in supplication, kept begging
+in agony:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Kill me, Papa!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>However, Antoine couldn&rsquo;t do this, for he
+was civilized.</p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">- 156 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">- 157 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">- 158 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">- 159 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="AT_THE_TELEPHONE" id="AT_THE_TELEPHONE" href="#TOC11">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">AT THE TELEPHONE</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>As he hadn&rsquo;t died in the ambulance, coming
+from the <i>Poste de Secours</i>, the
+surgeons concluded that they would give
+him another chance, and risk it on the operating
+table. He was nearly dead, anyway,
+so it didn&rsquo;t much matter, although the
+chance they proposed to give him wasn&rsquo;t
+even a fighting chance&mdash;it was just one in a
+thousand, some of them put it at one in ten
+thousand. Accordingly, they cut his clothes
+off in the <i>Salle d&rsquo;Attente</i>, and carried him,
+very dirty and naked, to the operating room.
+Here they found that his ten-thousandth
+chance would be diminished if they gave him
+a general an&aelig;sthetic, so they dispensed with
+chloroform and gave him spinal an&aelig;sthesia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">- 160 -</a></span>
+by injecting something into his spinal canal,
+between two of the low vertebr&aelig;. This
+completely relieved him of pain, but made
+him talkative, and when they saw he was
+conscious like that, it was decided to
+hold a sheet across the middle of him,
+so that he could not see what was going
+on, on the other side of the sheet, below his
+waist.</p>
+
+<p>The temperature in the operating room
+was stifling hot, and the sweat poured in
+drops from the brows of the surgeons, so
+that it took an orderly, with a piece of gauze,
+to swab them constantly. However, for all
+the heat, the man was stone cold and ashen
+grey, and his nostrils were pinched and
+dilated, while his breath came in gasps, forty
+to the minute. Yet, as I say, he was talkative,
+and his stream of little, vapid remarks,
+at his end of the sheet, did much
+to drown the clicking and snapping of
+clamps on the other side of it, where the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">- 161 -</a></span>
+surgeons were working to give him his one
+chance.</p>
+
+<p>A nurse held the sheet on one side of the
+table, and a priest-orderly held it at the
+other, and at his head stood a doctor, and
+the <i>Directrice</i> and another nurse, answering
+the string of vapid remarks and trying to
+sooth him. And three feet farther along,
+hidden from him and the little clustering
+company of people trying to distract his
+attention, stood the two surgeons, and the
+two young students, and just the tops of their
+hair could be seen over the edge of the sheet.
+They whispered a little from time to time,
+and worked very rapidly, and there was quite
+animated talking when the bone saw began
+to rasp.</p>
+
+<p>The man babbled of his home, and of his
+wife. He said he wanted to see her again,
+very much. And the priest-orderly, who
+wanted to drop his end of the sheet and administer
+the last Sacrament at once, grew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">- 162 -</a></span>
+very nervous and uneasy. So the man
+rambled on, gasping, and they replied to him
+in soothing manner, and told him that there
+was a chance that he might see her again.
+So he talked about her incessantly, and with
+affection, and his whispered words and the
+cheery replies quite drowned out the clicking
+and the snapping of the clamps. After a
+short while, however, his remarks grew less
+coherent, and he seemed to find himself
+back in the trenches, telephoning. He tried
+hard to telephone, he tried hard to get the
+connection. The wires seemed to be cut,
+however, and he grew puzzled, and knit his
+brows and swore, and tried again and again,
+over and over. He had something to say
+over the telephone, the trench communication
+wire, and his mind wandered, and he
+tried very hard, in his wandering mind, to
+get the connection. A shell had cut the
+line evidently. He grew annoyed and restless,
+and gazed anxiously and perplexedly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">- 163 -</a></span>
+at the white sheet, held so steadily across
+his middle. From the waist down he could
+not move, so all his restlessness took place
+on the upper side of the sheet, and he was
+unaware of what was going on on the other
+side of it, and so failed to hear the incessant
+rattle of clamps and the subdued whispers
+from the other side.</p>
+
+<p>He struggled hard to get the connection,
+in his mind, over the telephone. The wires
+seemed to be cut, and he cried out in anxiety
+and distress. Then he grew more and more
+feeble, and gasped more and more, and
+became almost inarticulate, in his efforts.
+He was distressed. But suddenly he got it.
+He screamed out very loud, relieved, satisfied,
+triumphant, startling them all.</p>
+
+<p><i>&ldquo;&Ccedil;a y est, maintenant! &Ccedil;a y est! C'est
+le bon Dieu &agrave; l&rsquo;appareil!&rdquo;</i> (All right now!
+All right! It is the good God at the
+telephone!)</p>
+
+<p>A drop of blood spotted the sheet, a sudden<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">- 164 -</a></span>
+vivid drop which spread rapidly, coming
+through. The surgeon raised himself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Finished here!&rdquo; he exclaimed with satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Finished here,&rdquo; repeated the <i>Directrice</i>.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+26 June, 1916.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">- 165 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">- 166 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">- 167 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="A_CITATION" id="A_CITATION" href="#TOC12">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">A CITATION</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>As a person, Grammont amounted to very
+little. In private life, before the war
+broke out, he had been an acrobat in the
+streets of Paris, and after that he became a
+hotel boy in some little fifth-rate hotel over
+behind the Gare St. Lazare. That had
+proved his undoing, for even the fifth-rate
+French travelling salesmen and sharpers and
+adventurers who patronized the hotel had
+money enough for him to steal. He stole a
+little, favoured by his position as <i>gar&ccedil;on
+d&rsquo;h&ocirc;tel</i>, and the theft had landed him, not
+in jail, but in the <i>Bataillon d&rsquo;Afrique</i>. He
+had served in that for two years, doing his
+military service in the <i>Bataillon d&rsquo;Afrique</i>
+instead of jail, while working off his five
+year sentence, and then war being declared,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">- 168 -</a></span>
+his regiment was transferred from Morocco
+to France, to Flanders, to the front line
+trenches, and in course of time he arrived
+one day at the hospital with a piece of shell
+in his spleen.</p>
+
+<p>He was pretty ill when brought in, and
+if he had died promptly, as he should have
+done, it would have been better. But it
+happened at that time that there was a surgeon
+connected with the hospital who was
+bent on making a reputation for himself,
+and this consisted in trying to prolong the
+lives of wounded men who ought normally
+and naturally to have died. So this surgeon
+worked hard to save Grammont, and certainly
+succeeded in prolonging his life, and
+in prolonging his suffering, over a very considerable
+portion of time. He worked hard
+over him, and he used on him everything
+he could think of, everything that money
+could buy. Every time he had a new idea
+as to treatment, no matter how costly it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">- 169 -</a></span>
+might be, he mentioned it to the <i>Directrice</i>,
+who sent to Paris and got it. All the while
+Grammont remained in bed, in very great
+agony, the surgeon making copious notes on
+the case, noting that under such and such
+circumstances, under conditions such as
+the following, such and such remedies and
+treatment proved futile and valueless.
+Grammont had a hole in his abdomen, when
+he entered, about an inch long. After about
+a month, this hole was scientifically increased
+to a foot in length, rubber drains stuck out
+in all directions, and went inwards as well,
+pretty deep, and his pain was enhanced a
+hundredfold, while his chances of recovery
+were not bright. But Grammont had a
+good constitution, and the surgeon worked
+hard over him, for if he got well, it would be
+a wonderful case, and the surgeon&rsquo;s reputation
+would benefit. Grammont bore it all
+very patiently, and did not ask to be allowed
+to die, as many of them did, for since he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">- 170 -</a></span>
+of the <i>Bataillon d&rsquo;Afrique</i>, such a request
+would be equivalent to asking for a remission
+of sentence&mdash;a sentence which the courts
+averred he justly deserved and merited.
+They took no account of the fact that his
+ethics were those of a wandering juggler,
+turning somersaults on a carpet at the public
+<i>f&ecirc;tes</i> of Paris, and had been polished off by
+contact with the men and women he had
+encountered in his capacity of <i>gar&ccedil;on d&rsquo;h&ocirc;tel</i>,
+in a fifth-rate hotel near Montmartre. On
+the contrary, they rather expected of him
+the decencies and moralities that come from
+careful nurture, and these not being forthcoming,
+they had sent him to the <i>Bataillon
+d&rsquo;Afrique</i>, where his eccentricities would be
+of no danger to the public.</p>
+
+<p>So Grammont continued to suffer, over a
+period of several long months, and he was
+sufficiently cynical, owing to his short experience
+of life, to realize that the surgeon, who
+worked over him so constantly and solicitously,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">- 171 -</a></span>
+was not solely and entirely disinterested
+in his efforts to make him well.
+Grammont had no life to return to, that was
+the trouble. Everyone knew it. The
+surgeon knew it, and the orderlies knew it,
+and his comrades in the adjoining beds knew
+it&mdash;he had absolutely no future before him,
+and there was not much sense in trying to
+make him well enough to return to Paris, a
+hopeless cripple. He lay in hospital for
+several months, suffering greatly, but greatly
+patient. During that time, he received no
+letters, for there was no one to write to him.
+He was an <i>apache</i>, he belonged to a criminal
+regiment, and he had no family anyhow, and
+his few friends, tattooed all over the body
+like himself, were also members of the same
+regiment, and as such, unable to do much for
+him in civil life after the war. Such it is to
+be a <i>joyeux</i>, to belong to a regiment of criminals,
+and to have no family to speak of.</p>
+
+<p>Grammont knew that it would be better<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">- 172 -</a></span>
+for him to die, but he did not like to protest
+against this painful prolonging of his life.
+He was pretty well sick of life, but he had
+to submit to the kind treatment meted out
+to him, to twist his mouth into a wry smile
+when the <i>Directrice</i> asked him each day if
+he was not better, and to accept without
+wincing all the newest devices that the
+surgeon discovered for him. There was some
+sense in saving other people&rsquo;s lives, but there
+was no sense in saving his. But the surgeon,
+who was working for a reputation, worked
+hand in hand with the <i>Directrice</i> who wanted
+her hospital to make a reputation for saving
+the lives of the <i>grands bless&eacute;s</i>. Grammont
+was the victim of circumstances, as usual,
+but it was all in his understanding of life,
+this being caught up in the ambitions of
+others, so he had to submit.</p>
+
+<p>After about three months of torture, during
+which time he grew weaker and smelled
+worse every day, it finally dawned on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">- 173 -</a></span>
+nurse that perhaps this life-saving business
+was not wholly desirable. If he got &ldquo;well,&rdquo;
+in the mildest acceptation of the term, he
+would be pretty well disabled, and useless
+and good for nothing. And if he was never
+going to get well, for which the prospects
+seemed bright enough, why force him along
+through more weeks of suffering, just to try
+out new remedies? Society did not want
+him, and he had no place in it. Besides,
+he had done his share, in the trenches, in
+protecting its best traditions.</p>
+
+<p>Then they all began to notice, suddenly,
+that in bed Grammont was displaying rather
+nice qualities, such as you would not expect
+from a <i>joyeux</i>, a social outcast. He appeared
+to be extremely patient, and while his face
+twisted up into knots of pain, most of the
+time, he did not cry out and disturb the ward
+as he might have done. This was nice and
+considerate, and other good traits were discovered
+too. He was not a nuisance, he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">- 174 -</a></span>
+not exacting, he did not demand unreasonable
+things, or refuse to submit to unreasonable
+things, when these were demanded of
+him. In fact, he seemed to accept his pain
+as God-given, and with a fatalism which
+in some ways was rather admirable. He
+could not help smelling like that, for he was
+full of rubber drains and of gauze drains, and
+if the doctor was too busy to dress his wounds
+that day, and so put him off till the next, it
+was not his fault for smelling so vilely. He
+did not raise any disturbance, nor make any
+complaint, on certain days when he seemed
+to be neglected. Any extra discomfort that
+he was obliged to bear, he bore stoically.
+Altogether, after some four months of this,
+it was discovered that Grammont had rather
+a remarkable character, a character which
+merited some sort of recognition. He seemed
+to have rather heroic qualities of endurance,
+of bravery, of discipline. Nor were they
+the heroic qualities that suddenly develop<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">- 175 -</a></span>
+in a moment of exaltation, but on the contrary,
+they were developed by months of
+extreme agony, of extreme bodily pain. He
+could have been so disagreeable, had he
+chosen. And as he cared so little to have
+his life saved, his goodness could not have
+been due to that. It seemed that he was
+merely very decent, very considerate of others,
+and wanted to give as little trouble as he
+could, no matter what took place. Only
+he got thinner and weaker, and more and
+more gentle, and at last after five months
+of this, the <i>Directrice</i> was touched by his
+conduct and suggested that here was a case
+of heroism as well worthy of the <i>Croix de
+Guerre</i> as were the more spectacular movements
+on the battlefield. It took a few
+weeks longer, of gentle suggestion on her
+part, to convey this impression to the General,
+but at last the General entered into correspondence
+with the officers of the regiment
+to which Grammont belonged, and it then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">- 176 -</a></span>
+transpired that as a soldier Grammont had
+displayed the same qualities of consideration
+for others and of discipline, that he was now
+displaying in a hospital bed. Finally one
+day, the news came that Grammont was to
+be decorated. Everyone else in the ward,
+who deserved it, had been decorated long
+ago, naturally, for they had not belonged to
+the <i>Bataillon d&rsquo;Afrique</i>. Their services had
+been recognized long ago. Now, however,
+after these many months of suffering, Grammont
+was to receive the <i>Croix de Guerre</i>.
+He was nearly dead by this time. When
+told the news, he smiled faintly. He did
+not seem to care. It seemed to make very
+little impression upon him. Yet it should
+have made an impression, for he was a convicted
+criminal, and it was a condescension
+that he should be so honoured at all. He
+had somehow won this honour, this token of
+forgiveness, by suffering so long, so uncomplainingly.
+However, a long delay took<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">- 177 -</a></span>
+place, although finally his papers came, his
+citation, in which he was cited in the orders
+of the regiment as having done a very brave
+deed, under fire. He smiled a little at that.
+It had taken place so long ago, this time
+when he had done the deed, received the
+wound that kept him suffering so long. It
+seemed so little worth while to acknowledge
+it now, after all these months, when he was
+just ready to leave.</p>
+
+<p>Then more delay took place, and Grammont
+got weaker, and the orderlies said
+among themselves that if the General was
+ever going to decorate this man, that he had
+better hurry up. However, so long a time
+had passed that it did not much matter.
+Grammont was pleased with his citation.
+It seemed to make it all right for him, somehow.
+It seemed to give him standing among
+his fellow patients. The hideous tattoo
+marks on his arms and legs, chest and back,
+which proclaimed him an <i>apache</i>, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">- 178 -</a></span>
+showed him such every time his wound was
+dressed, were about to be overlaid with a
+decoration for bravery upon the field of
+battle. But still the General did not come.
+Grammont grew very weak and feeble and
+his patience became exhausted. He held
+on as long as he could. So he died finally,
+after a long pull, just twenty minutes before
+the General arrived with his medals.</p>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+<p class="dateline">
+<span class="smcap">Paris</span>,<br />
+27 June, 1916.<br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">- 179 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">- 180 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<hr class="hr3" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">- 181 -</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="AN_INCIDENT" id="AN_INCIDENT" href="#TOC13">
+<span title=" Return to CONTENTS. " class="hoverlink">AN INCIDENT</span></a></h2>
+
+<p>At the intersection of the rue du Bac and
+the Boulevard St. Germain rises the
+statue of Claude Chappe, rising like a rock in
+the midst of the stream of traffic, and like
+a rock splitting the stream and diverting
+it into currents which flow east and west,
+north and south, smoothly and without
+collision. In guiding the stream of traffic
+and directing its orderly flow, the statue of
+Claude Chappe is greatly assisted by the
+presence of an <i>agent de police</i>, with a picturesque
+cape and a picturesque sword, and
+who controls the flow of vehicles with as
+much precision as a London policeman,
+although there are those who profess that
+a London policeman is the only one who
+understands the business. Before the war,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">- 182 -</a></span>
+when the omnibuses ran, the <i>agent de police</i>
+was always on duty; since the war, when the
+Paris omnibuses are all at the Front, carrying
+meat to the soldiers, there are certain
+times during the day when the whole responsibility
+for traffic regulation falls upon the
+statue of Claude Chappe. It was at one of
+these times, when Claude Chappe was standing
+head in air as usual, and failed to regard
+the comings and goings of the street, that
+this incident occurred.</p>
+
+<p>Down on the Quai, an officer of the French
+army stepped into a little victoria, a shabby
+little <i>voiture de place</i>, which trotted him up
+the rue du Bac and then essayed to take him
+along the Boulevard St. Germain to the
+<i>Minist&egrave;re de la Guerre</i>. Coming along the
+boulevard in the opposite direction, was a
+little lad of fifteen, bending low over the
+handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon,
+the box of which contained enough kilos to
+have taxed a strong man or an old horse.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">- 183 -</a></span>
+Men are scarce in Paris, however, and the
+little delivery boy, who could not possibly
+have been available for the army for another
+three years, was doing a man&rsquo;s work, or a
+horse&rsquo;s work, as you please. The French
+are a thrifty race, and the possibilities being
+that the war will all be over before that time,
+it mattered little whether this particular boy
+developed a hernia, or tuberculosis, or any
+other malady which might unfit him for
+future military service. At present he was
+earning money for his <i>patron</i>, which was all
+that really mattered. So the little boy on
+the tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the
+horse of the shabby victoria, conveying
+the French officer, and the <i>agent de police</i>
+was absent, and the statue of Claude Chappe
+stood, as usual, head in air.</p>
+
+<p>Quite a <i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e</i> ensued. The old horse,
+which should long ago have been in a butcher&rsquo;s
+shop, avoided the tricycle, with true
+French thrift, but stepped squarely upon the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">- 184 -</a></span>
+face of the little boy sprawling under its
+hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the
+fingers of the lad&rsquo;s right hand. War itself
+could not have been more disastrous. The
+youth rose to his feet, screaming. The
+cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the
+officer in the little carriage leaned back and
+twirled the ends of his neat moustache.
+The <i>agent de police</i>, who should have been on
+duty at the statue, arrived hastily from a
+nearby caf&eacute;. He always took two hours off
+for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he
+was obliged on this occasion to cut his lunch
+hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone
+was frightfully annoyed, but no one was more
+annoyed than the officer in the cab, on his
+way to the Minister of War.</p>
+
+<p>He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat
+imperturbable, one arm lying negligently
+along the back of the seat, the fingers of the
+other hand caressing the Cross of the Legion
+of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes rolled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">- 185 -</a></span>
+upwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which
+was not, at that moment, flying over Paris.
+The cabby got down from his seat, and with
+much vociferation called upon the officer
+to witness that it was not his fault. The
+crowd, who had not witnessed the accident,
+crowded round the policeman, giving testimony
+to what they had not seen. The sobbing
+boy was led into a chemist&rsquo;s. Still the
+people did not disperse. They pressed round
+the cab, and began shouting to the disinterested
+officer. The officer who cared not
+where the old horse had stepped. The officer
+who continued to loll back against the shabby
+cushions, to look upward at the sky, to
+remain indifferent to the taximeter, which
+skipped briskly from eighty-five centimes to
+ninety-five centimes, and continued ticking
+on. Women crowded round the cab, regarding
+its occupant. Was this one who commanded
+their sons at the Front, who had
+therefore seen so much, been through so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">- 186 -</a></span>
+much, that the sight of a little boy stamped
+on meant nothing to him? Had he seen so
+much suffering <i>en gros</i> that it meant nothing
+to him <i>en detail</i>? Or was this his attitude
+to all suffering? Was this the Nation&rsquo;s attitude
+to the suffering of their sons? Or was
+this officer one who had never been to the
+Front, an <i>embusqu&eacute;</i>, one of the protected
+ones, who occupied soft snaps in the rear,
+safe places from which to draw their pay?
+The crowd increased every minute. They
+speculated volubly. They surrounded the
+cab, voicing their speculations. They finally
+became so unbearable that the officer&rsquo;s boredom
+vanished. His annoyance became such,
+his impatience at the delay became such that
+he slid down from the shabby cushions, and
+without paying his fare, disappeared in the
+direction of the <i>Minist&egrave;re de la Guerre</i>.</p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">- 187 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<div class="serfont">
+<hr class="hr3" />
+<h3><i>A Selection from the<br />
+Catalogue of</i></h3>
+
+<h3>G. P. PUTNAM&rsquo;S SONS</h3>
+
+<div class="figcenter">
+<img src="images/image04.jpg" width="20" height="17" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<h4>Complete Catalogue sent<br />
+on application</h4>
+<p><br /></p></div>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">- 188 -</a></span></p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">- 189 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<div class="ads">
+<h1>The Night Cometh</h1>
+<h4>By</h4>
+<h2>Paul Bourget</h2>
+<h4>Translated by Frederic Lees</h4>
+<p class="center smfont"><i>12&deg;. &nbsp;&nbsp; $1.35</i></p>
+
+<p>Perhaps the most important work of
+imagination yet written under the influence
+of the war. A French military
+hospital is the scene of the story, and
+its chief characters are a famous Paris
+surgeon and a young wounded officer,
+whose fervent Catholic piety is in
+sharp contrast with the doctor&rsquo;s philosophic
+materialism. Death threatens
+both, and their opposing theories with
+regard to it are displayed in their relation
+to a drama of the most intense
+human passion.</p>
+
+<hr class="hrad" />
+<h4>G. P. Putnam&rsquo;s Sons</h4>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="100%" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+<tr><td align="left">New York</td><td align="right">London</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">- 190 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<div class="ads">
+<h1>Halt!<br />
+Who&rsquo;s There?</h1>
+<h5>By the Author of</h5>
+<h4>&ldquo;Aunt Sarah and the War&rdquo;</h4>
+<p class="center smfont"><i>75 cents net.&nbsp; Postage additional</i></p>
+
+<p>A volume comparable to <i>Aunt Sarah and
+the War</i> from the pen of the author of that
+book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the
+cases recorded are those of men who, though
+wounded in body, are spiritually whole. It is
+the ideals of England,&mdash;the essential England
+that, when the hour strikes, is all courage&mdash;that
+manifest themselves throughout. And be
+it said that it is an epitome not only of the
+spirit of England but of the United Kingdom,
+with the emphasis on the united. There is a
+fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy
+running through the book, and much of poignancy
+in the personal dramas glimpsed through
+its pages.</p>
+
+<hr class="hrad" />
+<h3>G. P. Putnam&rsquo;s Sons</h3>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="100%" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+<tr><td align="left">New York</td><td align="right">London</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">- 191 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<div class="ads">
+<h1>A TALL SHIP</h1>
+<h5>ON OTHER NAVAL OCCASIONS</h5>
+<h4>BY BARTIMEUS</h4>
+<p class="center smfont"><i>12&deg;.&nbsp; PICTURE WRAPPER.&nbsp; $1.00</i></p>
+
+<p>Tales descriptive of life in the British
+Navy under stress of war-time conditions&mdash;the
+life of the officers&rsquo; mess, and
+the stoke-hole&mdash;the grime as well as the
+glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of
+parting, of the strain of long waiting
+for the enemy, of sinking ships and
+struggles in the waves&mdash;and also of
+the bright side that not even war can
+extinguish.</p>
+
+<hr class="hrad" />
+<h3>G. P. PUTNAM&rsquo;S SONS</h3>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="100%" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+<tr><td align="left">NEW YORK</td><td align="right">LONDON</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<!--<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">- 192 -</a></span></p>-->
+
+<div class="ads">
+<h1>News from<br />
+Somewhere</h1>
+<h4>By</h4>
+<h3>James Milne</h3>
+<h5>Author of &ldquo;The Romance of a Pro-Consul,&rdquo; etc.</h5>
+<p class="center smfont"><i>12&deg;.&nbsp; $1.50 net.&nbsp; Frontispiece</i></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Many things seen, heard, and thought
+during travels at home, on sea and oversea,
+in the war-time which we call &lsquo;Armageddon.&rsquo;
+It is a chronicle of war impressions gathered
+during travel, near and far, on its edges red
+and jagged.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This indeed is a book of the war but it is
+not like the others. There is in it nothing
+that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must
+be in nearly every other volume that is
+wrought about Armageddon. There is sadness
+in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is
+an immensity of pathos. There is much that
+is beautiful. And all of it is true.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>The
+Daily Telegraph.</i></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Great in spirit ... a book that will surely
+outlive the war.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>The Graphic.</i></p>
+
+<hr class="hrad" />
+<h3>G. P. Putnam&rsquo;s Sons</h3>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" width="100%" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+<tr><td align="left">New York</td><td align="right">London</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Backwash of War
+       The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield as Witnessed by an
+       American Hospital Nurse
+
+Author: Ellen N. La Motte
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2008 [EBook #26884]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BACKWASH OF WAR ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Meredith Bach, Rene Anderson Benitz and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+(This file was produced from images generously made
+available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation and spelling have been
+retained as in the original. Minor printer errors have been amended
+without note.
+
+
+
+
+                    _By Ellen N. La Motte_
+
+
+                    The Tuberculosis Nurse
+
+                      The Backwash of War
+
+
+
+
+                             The
+                        Backwash of War
+
+            The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield
+                  as Witnessed by an American
+                        Hospital Nurse
+
+                              By
+                       Ellen N. La Motte
+
+
+                      G. P. Putnam's Sons
+                      New York and London
+                    The Knickerbocker Press
+                             1916
+
+
+
+
+                        Copyright, 1916
+                              BY
+                       ELLEN N. LA MOTTE
+
+                The Knickerbocker Press, New York
+
+
+
+
+                              To
+                       MARY BORDEN-TURNER
+
+                       "The Little Boss"
+
+                 TO WHOM I OWE MY EXPERIENCE IN
+                     THE ZONE OF THE ARMIES
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+This war has been described as "Months of boredom, punctuated by moments
+of intense fright." The writer of these sketches has experienced many
+"months of boredom," in a French military field hospital, situated ten
+kilometres behind the lines, in Belgium. During these months, the
+lines have not moved, either forward or backward, but have remained
+dead-locked, in one position. Undoubtedly, up and down the long-reaching
+kilometres of "Front" there has been action, and "moments of intense
+fright" have produced glorious deeds of valour, courage, devotion, and
+nobility. But when there is little or no action, there is a stagnant
+place, and in a stagnant place there is much ugliness. Much ugliness is
+churned up in the wake of mighty, moving forces. We are witnessing a
+phase in the evolution of humanity, a phase called War--and the slow,
+onward progress stirs up the slime in the shallows, and this is the
+Backwash of War. It is very ugly. There are many little lives foaming up
+in the backwash. They are loosened by the sweeping current, and float to
+the surface, detached from their environment, and one glimpses them,
+weak, hideous, repellent. After the war, they will consolidate again
+into the condition called Peace.
+
+After this war, there will be many other wars, and in the intervals
+there will be peace. So it will alternate for many generations. By
+examining the things cast up in the backwash, we can gauge the progress
+of humanity. When clean little lives, when clean little souls boil up in
+the backwash, they will consolidate, after the final war, into a peace
+that shall endure. But not till then.
+
+                                                  E. N. L. M.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+                                       PAGE
+
+HEROES                                   3
+
+LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE                17
+
+THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE                   35
+
+ALONE                                   49
+
+A BELGIAN CIVILIAN                      63
+
+THE INTERVAL                            77
+
+WOMEN AND WIVES                         95
+
+POUR LA PATRIE                         115
+
+LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA                       129
+
+A SURGICAL TRIUMPH                     143
+
+AT THE TELEPHONE                       159
+
+A CITATION                             167
+
+AN INCIDENT                            181
+
+
+
+
+HEROES
+
+
+When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the
+roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left
+eye, and then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they bundled him into
+an ambulance and carried him, cursing and screaming, to the nearest
+field hospital. The journey was made in double-quick time, over rough
+Belgian roads. To save his life, he must reach the hospital without
+delay, and if he was bounced to death jolting along at breakneck speed,
+it did not matter. That was understood. He was a deserter, and
+discipline must be maintained. Since he had failed in the job, his life
+must be saved, he must be nursed back to health, until he was well
+enough to be stood up against a wall and shot. This is War. Things like
+this also happen in peace time, but not so obviously.
+
+At the hospital, he behaved abominably. The ambulance men declared that
+he had tried to throw himself out of the back of the ambulance, that he
+had yelled and hurled himself about, and spat blood all over the floor
+and blankets--in short, he was very disagreeable. Upon the operating
+table, he was no more reasonable. He shouted and screamed and threw
+himself from side to side, and it took a dozen leather straps and four
+or five orderlies to hold him in position, so that the surgeon could
+examine him. During this commotion, his left eye rolled about loosely
+upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he shot great clots of
+stagnant blood, caring not where they fell. One fell upon the immaculate
+white uniform of the Directrice, and stained her, from breast to shoes.
+It was disgusting. They told him it was _La Directrice_, and that he
+must be careful. For an instant he stopped his raving, and regarded her
+fixedly with his remaining eye, then took aim afresh, and again covered
+her with his coward blood. Truly it was disgusting.
+
+To the _Medecin Major_ it was incomprehensible, and he said so. To
+attempt to kill oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy to die with
+honour upon the battlefield, was something he could not understand. So
+the _Medecin Major_ stood patiently aside, his arms crossed, his supple
+fingers pulling the long black hairs on his bare arms, waiting. He had
+long to wait, for it was difficult to get the man under the anaesthetic.
+Many cans of ether were used, which went to prove that the patient was a
+drinking man. Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before or
+since the war could not be ascertained; the war had lasted a year now,
+and in that time many habits may be formed. As the _Medecin Major_
+stood there, patiently fingering the hairs on his hairy arms, he
+calculated the amount of ether that was expended--five cans of ether, at
+so many francs a can--however, the ether was a donation from America, so
+it did not matter. Even so, it was wasteful.
+
+At last they said he was ready. He was quiet. During his struggles, they
+had broken out two big teeth with the mouth gag, and that added a little
+more blood to the blood already choking him. Then the _Medecin Major_
+did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the
+bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
+eye. After which the man was sent over to the ward, while the surgeon
+returned hungrily to his dinner, long overdue.
+
+In the ward, the man was a bad patient. He insisted upon tearing off his
+bandages, although they told him that this meant bleeding to death. His
+mind seemed fixed on death. He seemed to want to die, and was thoroughly
+unreasonable, although quite conscious. All of which meant that he
+required constant watching and was a perfect nuisance. He was so
+different from the other patients, who wanted to live. It was a joy to
+nurse them. This was the _Salle_ of the _Grands Blesses_, those most
+seriously wounded. By expert surgery, by expert nursing, some of these
+were to be returned to their homes again, _reformes_, mutilated for
+life, a burden to themselves and to society; others were to be nursed
+back to health, to a point at which they could again shoulder eighty
+pounds of marching kit, and be torn to pieces again on the firing line.
+It was a pleasure to nurse such as these. It called forth all one's
+skill, all one's humanity. But to nurse back to health a man who was to
+be court-martialled and shot, truly that seemed a dead-end occupation.
+
+They dressed his wounds every day. Very many yards of gauze were
+required, with gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much ether, very
+much iodoform, very many bandages--it was an expensive business,
+considering. All this waste for a man who was to be shot, as soon as he
+was well enough. How much better to expend this upon the hopeless
+cripples, or those who were to face death again in the trenches.
+
+The night nurse was given to reflection. One night, about midnight, she
+took her candle and went down the ward, reflecting. Ten beds on the
+right hand side, ten beds on the left hand side, all full. How pitiful
+they were, these little soldiers, asleep. How irritating they were,
+these little soldiers, awake. Yet how sternly they contrasted with the
+man who had attempted suicide. Yet did they contrast, after all? Were
+they finer, nobler, than he? The night nurse, given to reflection,
+continued her rounds.
+
+In bed number two, on the right, lay Alexandre, asleep. He had received
+the _Medaille Militaire_ for bravery. He was better now, and that day
+had asked the _Medecin Major_ for permission to smoke. The _Medecin
+Major_ had refused, saying that it would disturb the other patients. Yet
+after the doctor had gone, Alexandre had produced a cigarette and
+lighted it, defying them all from behind his _Medaille Militaire_. The
+patient in the next bed had become violently nauseated in consequence,
+yet Alexandre had smoked on, secure in his _Medaille Militaire_. How
+much honour lay in that?
+
+Here lay Felix, asleep. Poor, querulous, feeble-minded Felix, with a
+foul fistula, which filled the whole ward with its odour. In one
+sleeping hand lay his little round mirror, in the other, he clutched his
+comb. With daylight, he would trim and comb his moustache, his poor,
+little drooping moustache, and twirl the ends of it.
+
+Beyond lay Alphonse, drugged with morphia, after an intolerable day.
+That morning he had received a package from home, a dozen pears. He had
+eaten them all, one after the other, though his companions in the beds
+adjacent looked on with hungry, longing eyes. He offered not one, to
+either side of him. After his gorge, he had become violently ill, and
+demanded the basin in which to unload his surcharged stomach.
+
+Here lay Hippolyte, who for eight months had jerked on the bar of a
+captive balloon, until appendicitis had sent him into hospital. He was
+not ill, and his dirty jokes filled the ward, provoking laughter, even
+from dying Marius. How filthy had been his jokes--how they had been
+matched and beaten by the jokes of others. How filthy they all were,
+when they talked with each other, shouting down the length of the ward.
+
+Wherein lay the difference? Was it not all a dead-end occupation,
+nursing back to health men to be patched up and returned to the
+trenches, or a man to be patched up, court-martialled and shot? The
+difference lay in the Ideal.
+
+One had no ideals. The others had ideals, and fought for them. Yet had
+they? Poor selfish Alexandre, poor vain Felix, poor gluttonous Alphonse,
+poor filthy Hippolyte--was it possible that each cherished ideals,
+hidden beneath? Courageous dreams of freedom and patriotism? Yet if so,
+how could such beliefs fail to influence their daily lives? Could one
+cherish standards so noble, yet be himself so ignoble, so petty, so
+commonplace?
+
+At this point her candle burned out, so the night nurse took another
+one, and passed from bed to bed. It was very incomprehensible. Poor,
+whining Felix, poor whining Alphonse, poor whining Hippolyte, poor
+whining Alexandre--all fighting for _La Patrie_. And against them the
+man who had tried to desert _La Patrie_.
+
+So the night nurse continued her rounds, up and down the ward,
+reflecting. And suddenly she saw that these ideals were imposed from
+without--that they were compulsory. That left to themselves, Felix, and
+Hippolyte, and Alexandre, and Alphonse would have had no ideals.
+Somewhere, higher up, a handful of men had been able to impose upon
+Alphonse, and Hippolyte, and Felix, and Alexandre, and thousands like
+them, a state of mind which was not in them, of themselves. Base metal,
+gilded. And they were all harnessed to a great car, a Juggernaut,
+ponderous and crushing, upon which was enthroned Mammon, or the Goddess
+of Liberty, or Reason, as you like. Nothing further was demanded of them
+than their collective physical strength--just to tug the car forward, to
+cut a wide swath, to leave behind a broad path along which could
+follow, at some later date, the hordes of Progress and Civilization.
+Individual nobility was superfluous. All the Idealists demanded was
+physical endurance from the mass.
+
+Dawn filtered in through the little square windows of the ward. Two of
+the patients rolled on their sides, that they might talk to one another.
+In the silence of early morning their voices rang clear.
+
+"Dost thou know, _mon ami_, that when we captured that German battery a
+few days ago, we found the gunners chained to their guns?"
+
+    PARIS,
+18 December, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE
+
+
+They brought him to the _Poste de Secours_, just behind the lines, and
+laid the stretcher down gently, after which the bearers stretched and
+restretched their stiffened arms, numb with his weight. For he was a big
+man of forty, not one of the light striplings of the young classes of
+this year or last. The wounded man opened his eyes, flashing black eyes,
+that roved about restlessly for a moment, and then rested vindictively
+first on one, then on the other of the two _brancardiers_.
+
+"_Sales embusques!_" (Dirty cowards) he cried angrily. "How long is it
+since I have been wounded? Ten hours! For ten hours have I laid there,
+waiting for you! And then you come to fetch me, only when it is safe!
+Safe for you! Safe to risk your precious, filthy skins! Safe to come
+where I have stood for months! Safe to come where for ten hours I have
+laid, my belly opened by a German shell! Safe! Safe! How brave you are
+when night has fallen, when it is dark, when it is safe to come for me,
+ten hours late!"
+
+He closed his eyes, jerked up his knees, and clasped both dirty hands
+over his abdomen. From waist to knees the old blue trousers were soaked
+with blood, black blood, stiff and wet. The _brancardiers_ looked at
+each other and shook their heads. One shrugged a shoulder. Again the
+flashing eyes of the man on the stretcher opened.
+
+"_Sales embusques!_" he shouted again. "How long have you been engaged
+in this work of mercy? For twelve months, since the beginning of the
+war! And for twelve months, since the beginning of the war, I have stood
+in the first line trenches! Think of it--twelve months! And for twelve
+months you have come for us--when it was safe! How much younger are you
+than I! Ten years, both of you--ten years, fifteen years, or even more!
+Ah, _Nom de Dieu_, to have influence! Influence!"
+
+The flaming eyes closed again, and the bearers shuffled off, lighting
+cheap cigarettes.
+
+Then the surgeon came, impatiently. Ah, a _grand blesse_, to be hastened
+to the rear at once. The surgeon tried to unbutton the soaking trousers,
+but the man gave a scream of pain.
+
+"For the sake of God, cut them, _Monsieur le Major_! Cut them! Do not
+economize. They are worn out in the service of the country! They are
+torn and bloody, they can serve no one after me! Ah, the little
+economies, the little, false economies! Cut them, _Monsieur le Major_!"
+
+An assistant, with heavy, blunt scissors, half cut, half tore the
+trousers from the man in agony. Clouts of black blood rolled from the
+wound, then a stream bright and scarlet, which was stopped by a handful
+of white gauze, retained by tightly wrapped bands. The surgeon raised
+himself from the task.
+
+"_Mon pauvre vieux_," he murmured tenderly. "Once more?" and into the
+supine leg he shot a stream of morphia.
+
+Two ambulance men came in, Americans in khaki, ruddy, well fed,
+careless. They lifted the stretcher quickly, skilfully. Marius opened
+his angry eyes and fixed them furiously.
+
+"_Sales etrangers!_" he screamed. "What are _you_ here for? To see me,
+with my bowels running on the ground? Did you come for me ten hours ago,
+when I needed you? My head in mud, my blood warm under me? Ah, not you!
+There was danger then--you only come for me when it is safe!"
+
+They shoved him into the ambulance, buckling down the brown canvas
+curtains by the light of a lantern. One cranked the motor, then both
+clambered to the seat in front, laughing. They drove swiftly but
+carefully through the darkness, carrying no lights. Inside, the man
+continued his imprecations, but they could not hear him.
+
+"Strangers! Sightseers!" he sobbed in misery. "Driving a motor, when it
+is I who should drive the motor! Have I not conducted a Paris taxi for
+these past ten years? Do I not know how to drive, to manage an engine?
+What are they here for--France? No, only themselves! To write a book--to
+say what they have done--when it was safe! If it was France, there is
+the Foreign Legion--where they would have been welcome--to stand in the
+trenches as I have done! But do they enlist? Ah no! It is not safe! They
+take my place with the motor, and come to get me--when it is too late."
+
+Then the morphia relieving him, he slept.
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+In a field hospital, some ten kilometres behind the lines, Marius lay
+dying. For three days he had been dying and it was disturbing to the
+other patients. The stench of his wounds filled the air, his curses
+filled the ward. For Marius knew that he was dying and that he had
+nothing to fear. He could express himself as he chose. There would be no
+earthly court-martial for him--he was answerable to a higher court. So
+Marius gave forth freely to the ward his philosophy of life, his hard,
+bare, ugly life, as he had lived it, and his comments on _La Patrie_ as
+he understood it. For three days, night and day, he screamed in his
+delirium, and no one paid much attention, thinking it was delirium. The
+other patients were sometimes diverted and amused, sometimes exceedingly
+annoyed, according to whether or not they were sleepy or suffering. And
+all the while the wound in the abdomen gave forth a terrible stench,
+filling the ward, for he had gas gangrene, the odour of which is
+abominable.
+
+Marius had been taken to the _Salle_ of the abdominal wounds, and on one
+side of him lay a man with a faecal fistula, which smelled atrociously.
+The man with the fistula, however, had got used to himself, so he
+complained mightily of Marius. On the other side lay a man who had been
+shot through the bladder, and the smell of urine was heavy in the air
+round about. Yet this man had also got used to himself, and he too
+complained of Marius, and the awful smell of Marius. For Marius had gas
+gangrene, and gangrene is death, and it was the smell of death that the
+others complained of.
+
+Two beds farther down, lay a boy of twenty, who had been shot through
+the liver. Also his hand had been amputated, and for this reason he was
+to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He had performed no special act of
+bravery, but all _mutiles_ are given the _Croix de Guerre_, for they
+will recover and go back to Paris, and in walking about the streets of
+Paris, with one leg gone, or an arm gone, it is good for the _morale_ of
+the country that they should have a _Croix de Guerre_ pinned on their
+breasts. So one night at about eight o'clock, the General arrived to
+confer the _Croix de Guerre_ on the man two beds from Marius. The
+General was a beautiful man, something like the Russian Grand Duke. He
+was tall and thin, with beautiful slim legs encased in shining tall
+boots. As he entered the ward, emerging from the rain and darkness
+without, he was very imposing. A few rain drops sparkled upon the golden
+oak leaves of his cap, for although he had driven up in a limousine, he
+was not able to come quite up to the ward, but had been obliged to
+traverse some fifty yards of darkness, in the rain. He was encircled in
+a sweeping black cloak, which he cast off upon an empty bed, and then,
+surrounded by his glittering staff, he conferred the medal upon the man
+two beds below Marius. The little ceremony was touching in its dignity
+and simplicity. Marius, in his delirium, watched the proceedings
+intently.
+
+It was all over in five minutes. Then the General was gone, his staff
+was gone, and the ward was left to its own reflections.
+
+Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a little _joyeux_. That is to say,
+a soldier of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, which is the criminal regiment
+of France, in which regiment are placed those men who would otherwise
+serve sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this regiment in peace
+time, and in time of war, they fight in the trenches as do the others,
+but with small chance of being decorated. Social rehabilitation is their
+sole reward, as a rule. So Marius waxed forth, taunting the little
+_joyeux_, whose feet lay opposite his feet, a yard apart.
+
+"_Tiens!_ My little friend!" he shouted so that all might hear. "Thou
+canst never receive the _Croix de Guerre_, as Francois has received it,
+because thou art of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_! And why art thou there,
+my friend? Because, one night at a cafe, thou didst drink more wine than
+was good for thee--so much more than was good for thee, that when an old
+_boulevardier_, with much money in his pocket, proposed to take thy girl
+from thee, thou didst knock him down and give him a black eye! Common
+brawler, disturber of the peace! It was all due to the wine, the good
+wine, which made thee value the girl far above her worth! It was the
+wine! The wine! And every time an attempt is made in the Chamber to
+abolish drinking the good wine of France, there is violent opposition.
+Opposition from whom? From the old _boulevardier_ whose money is
+invested in the vineyards--the very man who casts covetous eyes upon thy
+Mimi! So thou goest to jail, then to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, and the
+wine flows, and thy Mimi--where is she? Only never canst thou receive
+the _Croix de Guerre_, my friend--_La Patrie Reconnaissante_ sees to
+that!"
+
+Marius shouted with laughter--he knew himself so near death, and it was
+good to be able to say all that was in his heart. An orderly approached
+him, one of the six young men attached as male nurses to the ward.
+
+"Ha! Thou bidst me be quiet, _sale embusque_?" he taunted. "I will shout
+louder than the guns! And hast thou ever heard the guns, nearer than
+this safe point behind the lines? Thou art here doing woman's work!
+Caring for me, nursing me! And what knowledge dost thou bring to thy
+task, thou ignorant grocer's clerk? Surely thou hast some powerful
+friend, who got thee mobilized as _infirmier_--a woman's task--instead
+of a simple soldier like me, doing his duty in the trenches!"
+
+Marius raised himself in bed, which the _infirmier_ knew, because the
+doctor had told him, was not a right position for a man who has a wound
+in his stomach, some thirty centimetres in length. Marius, however, was
+strong in his delirium, so the _infirmier_ called another to help him
+throw the patient upon his back. Soon three were called, to hold the
+struggling man down.
+
+Marius resigned himself. "Summon all six of you!" he shouted. "All six
+of you! And what do you know about illness such as mine? You, a grocer's
+clerk! You, barber! You, _cultivateur_! You, driver of the boat train
+from Paris to Cherbourg! You, agent of the Gas Society of Paris! You,
+driver of a Paris taxi, such as myself! Yet here you all are, in your
+wisdom, your experience, to nurse me! Mobilized as nurses because you
+are friend of a friend of a deputy! Whilst I, who know no deputy, am
+mobilized in the first line trenches! _Sales embusques! Sales
+embusques! La Patrie Reconnaissante!_"
+
+He laid upon his back a little while, quiet. He was very delirious, and
+the end could not be far off. His black eyebrows were contracted into a
+frown, the eyelids closed and quivering. The grey nostrils were pinched
+and dilated, the grey lips snarling above yellow, crusted teeth. The
+restless lips twitched constantly, mumbling fresh treason, inaudibly.
+Upon the floor on one side lay a pile of coverlets, tossed angrily from
+the bed, while on each side the bed dangled white, muscular, hairy legs,
+the toes touching the floor. All the while he fumbled to unloose the
+abdominal dressings, picking at the safety-pins with weak, dirty
+fingers. The patients on each side turned their backs to him, to escape
+the smell, the smell of death.
+
+A woman nurse came down the ward. She was the only one, and she tried to
+cover him with the fallen bedding. Marius attempted to clutch her hand,
+to encircle her with his weak, delirious, amorous arms. She dodged
+swiftly, and directed an orderly to cover him with the fallen blankets.
+
+Marius laughed in glee, a fiendish, feeble, shrieking laugh. "Have
+nothing to do with a woman who is diseased!" he shouted. "Never! Never!
+Never!"
+
+So they gave him more morphia, that he might be quiet and less indecent,
+and not disturb the other patients. And all that night he died, and all
+the next day he died, and all the night following he died, for he was a
+very strong man and his vitality was wonderful. And as he died, he
+continued to pour out to them his experience of life, his summing up of
+life, as he had lived it and known it. And the sight of the woman nurse
+evoked one train of thought, and the sight of the men nurses evoked
+another, and the sight of the man who had the _Croix de Guerre_ evoked
+another, and the sight of the _joyeux_ evoked another. And he told the
+ward all about it, incessantly. He was very delirious.
+
+His was a filthy death. He died after three days' cursing and raving.
+Before he died, that end of the ward smelled foully, and his foul words,
+shouted at the top of his delirious voice, echoed foully. Everyone was
+glad when it was over.
+
+The end came suddenly. After very much raving it came, after terrible
+abuse, terrible truths. One morning, very early, the night nurse looked
+out of the window and saw a little procession making its way out of the
+gates of the hospital enclosure, going towards the cemetery of the
+village beyond. First came the priest, carrying a wooden cross that the
+carpenter had just made. He was chanting something in a minor key, while
+the sentry at the gates stood at salute. The cortege passed through,
+numbering a dozen soldiers, four of whom carried the bier on their
+shoulders. The bier was covered with the glorious tricolour of France.
+She glanced instinctively back towards Marius. It would be just like
+that when he died. Then her eyes fell upon a Paris newspaper, lying on
+her table. There was a column headed, "_Nos Heros! Morts aux Champs
+d'Honneur! La Patrie Reconnaissante._" It would be just like that.
+
+Then Marius gave a last, sudden scream.
+
+"_Vive la France!_" he shouted. "_Vive les sales embusques! Hoch le
+Kaiser!_"
+
+The ward awoke, scandalized.
+
+"_Vive la Patrie Reconnaissante!_" he yelled. "_Hoch le Kaiser!_"
+
+Then he died.
+
+    PARIS,
+19 December, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE
+
+
+The field hospital stood in a field outside the village, surrounded by a
+thick, high hedge of prickly material. Within, the enclosure was filled
+by a dozen little wooden huts, painted green, connected with each other
+by plank walks. What went on outside the hedge, nobody within knew. War,
+presumably. War ten kilometres away, to judge by the map, and by the
+noise of the guns, which on some days roared very loudly, and made the
+wooden huts shake and tremble, although one got used to that, after a
+fashion. The hospital was very close to the war, so close that no one
+knew anything about the war, therefore it was very dull inside the
+enclosure, with no news and no newspapers, and just quarrels and
+monotonous work. As for the hedge, at such points as the prickly thorn
+gave out or gave way, stout stakes and stout boarding took its place,
+thus making it a veritable prison wall to those confined within. There
+was but one recognized entrance, the big double gates with a sentry box
+beside them, at which box or within it, according to the weather, stood
+a sentry, night and day. By day, a drooping French flag over the gates
+showed the ambulances where to enter. By night, a lantern served the
+same purpose. The night sentry was often asleep, the day sentry was
+often absent, and each wrote down in a book, when they thought it
+important, the names of those who came and went into the hospital
+grounds. The field ambulances came and went, the hospital motors came
+and went, now and then the General's car came and went, and the people
+attached to the hospital also came and went, openly, through the gates.
+But the comings and goings through the hedge were different.
+
+Now and then holes were discovered in the hedge. Holes underneath the
+prickly thorn, not more than a foot high, but sufficient to allow a
+crawling body to wriggle through on its stomach. These holes persisted
+for a day or two or three, and then were suddenly staked up, with strong
+stakes and barbed wire. After which, a few days later, perhaps, other
+holes like them would be discovered in the hedge a little further along.
+After each hole was discovered, curious happenings would take place
+amongst the hospital staff.
+
+Certain men, orderlies or stretcher bearers, would be imprisoned. For
+example, the nurse of _Salle I._, the ward of the _grands blesses_,
+would come on duty some morning and discover that one of her orderlies
+was missing. Fouquet, who swept the ward, who carried basins, who gave
+the men their breakfasts, was absent. There was a beastly hitch in the
+ward work, in consequence. The floor was filthy, covered with cakes of
+mud tramped in by the stretcher bearers during the night. The men
+screamed for attention they did not receive. The wrong patients got the
+wrong food at meal times. And then the nurse would look out of one of
+the little square windows of the ward, and see Fouquet marching up and
+down the plank walks between the _baracques_, carrying his eighty pounds
+of marching kit, and smiling happily and defiantly. He was "in prison."
+The night before he had crawled through a hole in the hedge, got blind
+drunk in a neighbouring _estaminet_, and had swaggered boldly through
+the gates in the morning, to be "imprisoned." He wanted to be. He just
+could not stand it any longer. He was sick of it all. Sick of being
+_infirmier_, of sweeping the floor, of carrying vessels, of cutting up
+tough meat for sullen, one-armed men, with the _Croix de Guerre_ pinned
+to their coffee-streaked night shirts. Bah! The _Croix de Guerre_
+pinned to a night shirt, egg-stained, smelling of sweat!
+
+Long, long ago, before any one thought of war--oh, long ago, that is,
+about six years--Fouquet had known a deputy. Also his father had known
+the deputy. And so, when it came time for his military service, he had
+done it as _infirmier_. As nurse, not soldier. He had done stretcher
+drill, with empty stretchers. He had swept wards, empty of patients. He
+had done his two years military service, practising on empty beds, on
+empty stretchers. He had had a snap, because of the deputy. Then came
+the war, and still he had a snap, although now the beds and the wards
+were all full. Still, there was no danger, no front line trenches, for
+he was mobilized as _infirmier_, as nurse in a military hospital. He
+stood six feet tall, which is big for a Frenchman, and he was big in
+proportion, and he was twenty-five years old, and ruddy and strong. Yet
+he was obliged to wait upon a little screaming man, five feet two,
+whose nose had been shot away, exchanged for the _Medaille Militaire_
+upon his breast, who screamed out to him: "Bring me the basin,
+_embusque_!" And he had brought it. If he had not brought it, the little
+screaming man with no nose and the flat bandage across his face would
+have reported him to the _Medecin Chef_, and in time he might have been
+transferred to the front line trenches. Anything is better than the
+front line trenches. Fouquet knew this, because the wounded men were so
+bitter at his not being there. The old men were very bitter. At the end
+of the summer, they changed the troops in this sector, and the young
+Zouaves were replaced by old men of forty and forty-five. They looked
+very much older than this when they were wounded and brought into the
+hospital, for their hair and beards were often quite white, and besides
+their wounds, they were often sick from exposure to the cold, winter
+rains of Flanders. One of these old men, who were nearly always
+querulous, had a son also serving in the trenches. He was very rude to
+Fouquet, this old man. Old and young, they called him _embusque_. Which
+meant that they were jealous of him, that they very much envied him for
+escaping the trenches, and considered it very unjust that they knew no
+one with influence who could have protected them in the same way. But
+Fouquet was very sick of it all. Day in and day out, for eighteen
+months, or since the beginning of the war, he had waited upon the
+wounded. He had done as the commonest soldier had ordered him, clodding
+up and down the ward in his heavy wooden _sabots_, knocking them against
+the beds, eliciting curses for his intentional clumsiness. There were
+also many priests in that hospital, likewise serving as _infirmiers_.
+They too, fetched and carried, but they did not seem to resent it. Only
+Fouquet and some others resented it. Fouquet resented the war, and the
+first line trenches, and the field hospital, and the wounded men, and
+everything connected with the war. He was utterly bored with the war.
+The hole in the hedge and the _estaminet_ beyond was all that saved him.
+
+There was a priest with a yellow beard, who also used the hole in the
+hedge. He used it almost every night, when it was open. He slipped out,
+got his drink, and then slipped down to the village to spend the night
+with a girl. Only he was crafty, and slipped back again through the hole
+before daylight, and was always on duty again in the morning. True, he
+was very cross and irritable, and the patients did without things rather
+than ask him for them, and sometimes they suffered a great deal, doing
+without things, on these mornings when he was so cross.
+
+But with Fouquet, it was different. He walked in boldly through the
+gates in the morning, and said that he had been out all night without
+leave, and that he was bored to the point of death. So the _Medecin
+Chef_ punished him. He imprisoned him, and as there was no prison, he
+served his six days' sentence in the open air. He donned his eighty
+pounds of marching kit, and tramped up and down the plank walks, and
+round behind the _baracques_, in the mud, in full sight of all, so that
+all might witness his humiliation. He did not go on duty again in the
+ward, and in consequence, the ward suffered through lack of his
+grudging, uncouth administration.
+
+Sometimes he met the _Directrice_ as he trudged up and down. He was
+always afraid to meet her, because once she had gone to the _Medecin
+Chef_ and had him pardoned. Her gentle heart had been touched at the
+sight of his public disgrace, so she had had his sentence remitted, and
+he had been obliged to go back to the ward, to the work he loathed, to
+the patients he despised, after only two hours' freedom in a rare
+October sun. Since then, he had carefully avoided the _Directrice_ when
+he saw her blue cloak in the distance, coming down the _trottoir_. Women
+were a nuisance at the Front.
+
+He frequently encountered the man who picked up papers, and frankly
+envied him, for this man had a very easy post. He was mobilized as a
+member of the _formation_ of Hospital Number ----, and his work consisted
+in picking up scraps of paper scattered about the grounds within the
+enclosure. He had a long stick with a nail in the end, and a small
+basket because there wasn't much to pick up. With the nail, he picked up
+what scraps there were, and did not even have to stoop over to do it. He
+walked about in the clean, fresh air, and when it rained, he cuddled up
+against the stove in the pharmacy. The present paper-gatherer was a
+chemist; his predecessor had been a priest. It was a very nice position
+for an able-bodied man with some education, and Fouquet greatly desired
+it himself, only he feared he was not sufficiently well educated, since
+in civil life he was only a farm hand. So in his march up and down the
+_trottoir_ he cast envious glances at the man who picked up papers.
+
+So, bearing his full-weight marching kit, he walked up and down, between
+the _baracques_, dogged and defiant. The other orderlies and stretcher
+bearers laughed at him, and said: "There goes Fouquet, punished!" And
+the patients, who missed him, asked: "Where is Fouquet? Punished?" And
+the nurse of that ward, who also missed Fouquet, said: "Poor Fouquet!
+Punished!" But Fouquet, swaggering up and down in full sight of all, was
+pleased because he had had a good drink the night before, and did not
+have to wait upon the patients the day after, and to him, the only sane
+thing about the war was the discipline of the Army.
+
+
+
+
+ALONE
+
+
+Rochard died to-day. He had gas gangrene. His thigh, from knee to
+buttock, was torn out by a piece of German shell. It was an interesting
+case, because the infection had developed so quickly. He had been placed
+under treatment immediately too, reaching the hospital from the trenches
+about six hours after he had been wounded. To have a thigh torn off, and
+to reach first-class surgical care within six hours, is practically
+immediately. Still, gas gangrene had developed, which showed that the
+Germans were using very poisonous shells. At that field hospital there
+had been established a surgical school, to which young men, just
+graduated from medical schools, or old men, graduated long ago from
+medical schools, were sent to learn how to take care of the wounded.
+After they had received a two months' experience in this sort of war
+surgery, they were to be placed in other hospitals, where they could do
+the work themselves. So all those young men who did not know much, and
+all those old men who had never known much, and had forgotten most of
+that, were up here at this field hospital, learning. This had to be
+done, because there were not enough good doctors to go round, so in
+order to care for the wounded at all, it was necessary to furbish up the
+immature and the senile. However, the _Medecin Chef_ in charge of the
+hospital and in charge of the surgical school, was a brilliant surgeon
+and a good administrator, so he taught the students a good deal.
+Therefore, when Rochard came into the operating room, all the young
+students and the old students crowded round to see the case. It was all
+torn away, the flesh from that right thigh, from knee to buttock, down
+to the bone, and the stench was awful. The various students came forward
+and timidly pressed the upper part of the thigh, the remaining part, all
+that remained of it, with their fingers, and little crackling noises
+came forth, like bubbles. Gas gangrene. Very easy to diagnose. Also the
+bacteriologist from another hospital in the region happened to be
+present, and he made a culture of the material discharged from that
+wound, and afterwards told the _Medecin Chef_ that it was positively and
+absolutely gas gangrene. But the _Medecin Chef_ had already taught the
+students that gas gangrene may be recognized by the crackling and the
+smell, and the fact that the patient, as a rule, dies pretty soon.
+
+They could not operate on Rochard and amputate his leg, as they wanted
+to do. The infection was so high, into the hip, it could not be done.
+Moreover, Rochard had a fractured skull as well. Another piece of shell
+had pierced his ear, and broken into his brain, and lodged there. Either
+wound would have been fatal, but it was the gas gangrene in his torn-out
+thigh that would kill him first. The wound stank. It was foul. The
+_Medecin Chef_ took a curette, a little scoop, and scooped away the dead
+flesh, the dead muscles, the dead nerves, the dead blood-vessels. And so
+many blood-vessels being dead, being scooped away by that sharp curette,
+how could the blood circulate in the top half of that flaccid thigh? It
+couldn't. Afterwards, into the deep, yawning wound, they put many
+compresses of gauze, soaked in carbolic acid, which acid burned deep
+into the germs of the gas gangrene, and killed them, and killed much
+good tissue besides. Then they covered the burning, smoking gauze with
+absorbent cotton, then with clean, neat bandages, after which they
+called the stretcher bearers, and Rochard was carried from the
+operating table back to the ward.
+
+The night nurse reported next morning that he had passed a night of
+agony.
+
+"_Cela pique! Cela brule!_" he cried all night, and turned from side
+to side to find relief. Sometimes he lay on his good side; sometimes he
+lay on his bad side, and the night nurse turned him from side to side,
+according to his fancy, because she knew that on neither one side nor
+the other would he find relief, except such mental relief as he got by
+turning. She sent one of the orderlies, Fouquet, for the _Medecin Chef_,
+and the _Medecin Chef_ came to the ward, and looked at Rochard, and
+ordered the night nurse to give him morphia, and again morphia, as often
+as she thought best. For only death could bring relief from such pain as
+that, and only morphia, a little in advance of death, could bring
+partial relief.
+
+So the night nurse took care of Rochard all that night, and turned him
+and turned him, from one side to the other, and gave him morphia, as the
+_Medecin Chef_ had ordered. She listened to his cries all night, for the
+morphia brought him no relief. Morphia gives a little relief, at times,
+from the pain of life, but it is only death that brings absolute relief.
+
+When the day nurse came on duty next morning, there was Rochard in
+agony. "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_" he cried. And again and again, all
+the time, "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_", meaning the pain in his leg.
+And because of the piece of shell, which had penetrated his ear and
+lodged in his brain somewhere, his wits were wandering. No one can be
+fully conscious with an inch of German shell in his skull. And there was
+a full inch of German shell in Rochard's skull, in his brain somewhere,
+for the radiographist said so. He was a wonderful radiographist and
+anatomist, and he worked accurately with a beautiful, expensive
+machine, given him, or given the field hospital, by Madame Curie.
+
+So all night Rochard screamed in agony, and turned and twisted, first on
+the hip that was there, and then on the hip that was gone, and on
+neither side, even with many ampoules of morphia, could he find relief.
+Which shows that morphia, good as it is, is not as good as death. So
+when the day nurse came on in the morning, there was Rochard strong
+after a night of agony, strong after many _picqures_ of strychnia, which
+kept his heart beating and his lungs breathing, strong after many
+_picqures_ of morphia which did not relieve his pain. Thus the science
+of healing stood baffled before the science of destroying.
+
+Rochard died slowly. He stopped struggling. He gave up trying to find
+relief by lying upon the hip that was there, or the hip that was gone.
+He ceased to cry. His brain, in which was lodged a piece of German
+shell, seemed to reason, to become reasonable, with break of day. The
+evening before, after his return from the operating room, he had been
+decorated with the _Medaille Militaire_, conferred upon him, _in
+extremis_, by the General of the region. Upon one side of the medal,
+which was pinned to the wall at the head of the bed, were the words:
+_Valeur et Discipline_. Discipline had triumphed. He was very good and
+quiet now, very obedient and disciplined, and no longer disturbed the
+ward with his moanings.
+
+Little Rochard! Little man, gardener by trade, aged thirty-nine,
+widower, with one child! The piece of shell in his skull had made one
+eye blind. There had been a haemorrhage into the eyeball, which was all
+red and sunken, and the eyelid would not close over it, so the red eye
+stared and stared into space. And the other eye drooped and drooped, and
+the white showed, and the eyelid drooped till nothing but the white
+showed, and that showed that he was dying. But the blind, red eye stared
+beyond. It stared fixedly, unwinkingly, into space. So always the nurse
+watched the dull, white eye, which showed the approach of death.
+
+No one in the ward was fond of Rochard. He had been there only a few
+hours. He meant nothing to any one there. He was a dying man, in a field
+hospital, that was all. Little stranger Rochard, with one blind, red eye
+that stared into Hell, the Hell he had come from. And one white, dying
+eye, that showed his hold on life, his brief, short hold. The nurse
+cared for him very gently, very conscientiously, very skilfully. The
+surgeon came many times to look at him, but he had done for him all that
+could be done, so each time he turned away with a shrug. Fouquet, the
+young orderly, stood at the foot of the bed, his feet far apart, his
+hands on his hips, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! La la! La
+la!_" And Simon, the other orderly, also stood at the foot of the bed,
+from time to time, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! C'est triste!
+C'est bien triste!_"
+
+So Rochard died, a stranger among strangers. And there were many people
+there to wait upon him, but there was no one there to love him. There
+was no one there to see beyond the horror of the red, blind eye, of the
+dull, white eye, of the vile, gangrene smell. And it seemed as if the
+red, staring eye was looking for something the hospital could not give.
+And it seemed as if the white, glazed eye was indifferent to everything
+the hospital could give. And all about him was the vile gangrene smell,
+which made an aura about him, and shut him into himself, very
+completely. And there was nobody to love him, to forget about that
+smell.
+
+He sank into a stupor about ten o'clock in the morning, and was
+unconscious from then till the time the nurse went to lunch. She went
+to lunch reluctantly, but it is necessary to eat. She instructed
+Fouquet, the orderly, to watch Rochard carefully, and to call her if
+there was any change.
+
+After a short time she came back from lunch, and hurried to see Rochard,
+hurried behind the flamboyant, red, cheerful screens that shut him off
+from the rest of the ward. Rochard was dead.
+
+At the other end of the ward sat the two orderlies, drinking wine.
+
+    PARIS,
+April 15, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+A BELGIAN CIVILIAN
+
+
+A big English ambulance drove along the high road from Ypres, going in
+the direction of a French field hospital, some ten miles from Ypres.
+Ordinarily, it could have had no business with this French hospital,
+since all English wounded are conveyed back to their own bases,
+therefore an exceptional case must have determined its route. It was an
+exceptional case--for the patient lying quietly within its yawning body,
+sheltered by its brown canvas wings, was not an English soldier, but
+only a small Belgian boy, a civilian, and Belgian civilians belong
+neither to the French nor English services. It is true that there was a
+hospital for Belgian civilians at the English base at Hazebrouck, and it
+would have seemed reasonable to have taken the patient there, but it
+was more reasonable to dump him at this French hospital, which was
+nearer. Not from any humanitarian motives, but just to get rid of him
+the sooner. In war, civilians are cheap things at best, and an immature
+civilian, Belgian at that, is very cheap. So the heavy English ambulance
+churned its way up a muddy hill, mashed through much mud at the entrance
+gates of the hospital, and crunched to a halt on the cinders before the
+_Salle d'Attente_, where it discharged its burden and drove off again.
+
+The surgeon of the French hospital said: "What have we to do with this?"
+yet he regarded the patient thoughtfully. It was a very small patient.
+Moreover, the big English ambulance had driven off again, so there was
+no appeal. The small patient had been deposited upon one of the beds in
+the _Salle d'Attente_, and the French surgeon looked at him and wondered
+what he should do. The patient, now that he was here, belonged as much
+to the French field hospital as to any other, and as the big English
+ambulance from Ypres had driven off again, there was not much use in
+protesting. The French surgeon was annoyed and irritated. It was a
+characteristic English trick, he thought, this getting other people to
+do their work. Why could they not have taken the child to one of their
+own hospitals, since he had been wounded in their lines, or else have
+taken him to the hospital provided for Belgian civilians, where, full as
+it was, there was always room for people as small as this. The surgeon
+worked himself up into quite a temper. There is one thing about members
+of the _Entente_--they understand each other. The French surgeon's
+thoughts travelled round and round in an irritated circle, and always
+came back to the fact that the English ambulance had gone, and here lay
+the patient, and something must be done. So he stood considering.
+
+A Belgian civilian, aged ten. Or thereabouts. Shot through the abdomen,
+or thereabouts. And dying, obviously. As usual, the surgeon pulled and
+twisted the long, black hairs on his hairy, bare arms, while he
+considered what he should do. He considered for five minutes, and then
+ordered the child to the operating room, and scrubbed and scrubbed his
+hands and his hairy arms, preparatory to a major operation. For the
+Belgian civilian, aged ten, had been shot through the abdomen by a
+German shell, or piece of shell, and there was nothing to do but try to
+remove it. It was a hopeless case, anyhow. The child would die without
+an operation, or he would die during the operation, or he would die
+after the operation. The French surgeon scrubbed his hands viciously,
+for he was still greatly incensed over the English authorities who had
+placed the case in his hands and then gone away again. They should have
+taken him to one of the English bases, St. Omer, or Hazebrouck--it was
+an imposition to have dumped him so unceremoniously here simply because
+"here" was so many kilometres nearer. "Shirking," the surgeon called it,
+and was much incensed.
+
+After a most searching operation, the Belgian civilian was sent over to
+the ward, to live or die as circumstances determined. As soon as he came
+out of ether, he began to bawl for his mother. Being ten years of age,
+he was unreasonable, and bawled for her incessantly and could not be
+pacified. The patients were greatly annoyed by this disturbance, and
+there was indignation that the welfare and comfort of useful soldiers
+should be interfered with by the whims of a futile and useless civilian,
+a Belgian child at that. The nurse of that ward also made a fool of
+herself over this civilian, giving him far more attention than she had
+ever bestowed upon a soldier. She was sentimental, and his little age
+appealed to her--her sense of proportion and standard of values were all
+awrong. The _Directrice_ appeared in the ward and tried to comfort the
+civilian, to still his howls, and then, after an hour of vain effort,
+she decided that his mother must be sent for. He was obviously dying,
+and it was necessary to send for his mother, whom alone of all the world
+he seemed to need. So a French ambulance, which had nothing to do with
+Belgian civilians, nor with Ypres, was sent over to Ypres late in the
+evening to fetch this mother for whom the Belgian civilian, aged ten,
+bawled so persistently.
+
+She arrived finally, and, it appeared, reluctantly. About ten o'clock in
+the evening she arrived, and the moment she alighted from the big
+ambulance sent to fetch her, she began complaining. She had complained
+all the way over, said the chauffeur. She climbed down backward from the
+front seat, perched for a moment on the hub, while one heavy leg, with
+foot shod in slipping _sabot_, groped wildly for the ground. A soldier
+with a lantern watched impassively, watched her solid splash into a mud
+puddle that might have been avoided. So she continued her complaints.
+She had been dragged away from her husband, from her other children, and
+she seemed to have little interest in her son, the Belgian civilian,
+said to be dying. However, now that she was here, now that she had come
+all this way, she would go in to see him for a moment, since the
+_Directrice_ seemed to think it so important. The _Directrice_ of this
+French field hospital was an American, by marriage a British subject,
+and she had curious, antiquated ideas. She seemed to feel that a
+mother's place was with her child, if that child was dying. The
+_Directrice_ had three children of her own whom she had left in England
+over a year ago, when she came out to Flanders for the life and
+adventures of the Front. But she would have returned to England
+immediately, without an instant's hesitation, had she received word that
+one of these children was dying. Which was a point of view opposed to
+that of this Belgian mother, who seemed to feel that her place was back
+in Ypres, in her home, with her husband and other children. In fact,
+this Belgian mother had been rudely dragged away from her home, from her
+family, from certain duties that she seemed to think important. So she
+complained bitterly, and went into the ward most reluctantly, to see her
+son, said to be dying.
+
+She saw her son, and kissed him, and then asked to be sent back to
+Ypres. The _Directrice_ explained that the child would not live through
+the night. The Belgian mother accepted this statement, but again asked
+to be sent back to Ypres. The _Directrice_ again assured the Belgian
+mother that her son would not live through the night, and asked her to
+spend the night with him in the ward, to assist at his passing. The
+Belgian woman protested.
+
+"If _Madame la Directrice_ commands, if she insists, then I must
+assuredly obey. I have come all this distance because she commanded me,
+and if she insists that I spend the night at this place, then I must do
+so. Only if she does not insist, then I prefer to return to my home, to
+my other children at Ypres."
+
+However, the _Directrice_, who had a strong sense of a mother's duty to
+the dying, commanded and insisted, and the Belgian woman gave way. She
+sat by her son all night, listening to his ravings and bawlings, and was
+with him when he died, at three o'clock in the morning. After which
+time, she requested to be taken back to Ypres. She was moved by the
+death of her son, but her duty lay at home. _Madame la Directrice_ had
+promised to have a mass said at the burial of the child, which promise
+having been given, the woman saw no necessity for remaining.
+
+"My husband," she explained, "has a little _estaminet_, just outside of
+Ypres. We have been very fortunate. Only yesterday, of all the long days
+of the war, of the many days of bombardment, did a shell fall into our
+kitchen, wounding our son, as you have seen. But we have other children
+to consider, to provide for. And my husband is making much money at
+present, selling drink to the English soldiers. I must return to assist
+him."
+
+So the Belgian civilian was buried in the cemetery of the French
+soldiers, but many hours before this took place, the mother of the
+civilian had departed for Ypres. The chauffeur of the ambulance which
+was to convey her back to Ypres turned very white when given his
+orders. Everyone dreaded Ypres, and the dangers of Ypres. It was the
+place of death. Only the Belgian woman, whose husband kept an
+_estaminet_, and made much money selling drink to the English soldiers,
+did not dread it. She and her husband were making much money out of the
+war, money which would give their children a start in life. When the
+ambulance was ready she climbed into it with alacrity, although with a
+feeling of gratitude because the _Directrice_ had promised a mass for
+her dead child.
+
+"These Belgians!" said a French soldier. "How prosperous they will be
+after the war! How much money they will make from the Americans, and
+from the others who come to see the ruins!"
+
+And as an afterthought, in an undertone, he added: "_Ces sales
+Belges!_"
+
+
+
+
+THE INTERVAL
+
+
+As an orderly, Erard wasn't much good. He never waited upon the patients
+if he could help it, and when he couldn't help it, he was so
+disagreeable that they wished they had not asked him for things. The
+newcomers, who had been in the hospital only a few days, used to think
+he was deaf, since he failed to hear their requests, and they did not
+like to yell at him, out of consideration for their comrades in the
+adjoining beds. Nor was he a success at sweeping the ward, since he did
+it with the broom in one hand and a copy of the _Petit Parisien_ in the
+other--in fact, when he sat down on a bed away at the end and frankly
+gave himself up to a two-year-old copy of _Le Rire_, sent out with a lot
+of old magazines for the patients, he was no less effective than when
+he sulkily worked. There was just one thing he liked and did well, and
+that was to watch for the Generals. He was an expert in recognizing them
+when they were as yet a long way off. He used to slouch against the
+window panes and keep a keen eye upon the _trottoir_ on such days or at
+such hours as the Generals were likely to appear. Upon catching sight of
+the oak-leaves in the distance, he would at once notify the ward, so
+that the orderlies and the nurse could tidy up things before the General
+made rounds. He had a very keen eye for oak-leaves--the golden
+oak-leaves on the General's _kepi_--and he never by any chance gave a
+false alarm or mistook a colonel in the distance, and so put us to
+tidying up unnecessarily. He did not help with the work of course, but
+continued leaning against the window, reporting the General's progress
+up the _trottoir_--that he had now gone into Salle III.--that he had
+left Salle III. and was conversing outside Salle II.--that he was now,
+positively, on his way up the incline leading into Salle I., and would
+be upon us any minute. Sometimes the General lingered unnecessarily long
+on the incline, the wooden slope leading up to the ward, in which case
+he was not visible from the window, and Erard would amuse us by
+regretting that he had no periscope for the transom over the door.
+
+There were two Generals who visited the hospital. The big General, the
+important one, the Commander of the region, who was always beautiful to
+look upon in his tight, well-fitting black jacket, trimmed with
+astrakhan, who came from his limousine with a Normandy stick dangling
+from his wrist, and who wore spotless, clean gloves. This, the big
+General, came to decorate the men who were entitled to the _Croix de
+Guerre_ and the _Medaille Militaire_, and after he had decorated one or
+two, as the case might be, he usually continued on through the
+hospital, shaking hands here and there with the patients, and chatting
+with the _Directrice_ and with the doctors and officers who followed in
+his wake. The other General was not nearly so imposing. He was short and
+fat and dressed in a grey-blue uniform, of the shade known as invisible,
+and his _kepi_ was hidden by a grey-blue cover, with a little square
+hole cut out in front, so that an inch of oak-leaves might be seen. He
+was much more formidable than the big General, however, since he was the
+_Medecin Inspecteur_ of the region, and was responsible for all the
+hospitals thereabouts. He made rather extensive rounds, closely
+questioning the surgeons as to the wounds and treatment of each man, and
+as he was a doctor as well, he knew how to judge of the replies. Whereas
+the big General was a soldier and not a doctor, and was thus unable to
+ask any disconcerting questions, so that his visits, while tedious,
+were never embarrassing. When a General came on the place, it was a
+signal to down tools. The surgeons would hurriedly finish their
+operations, or postpone them if possible, and the dressings in the wards
+were also stopped or postponed, while the surgeons would hurry after the
+General, whichever one it was, and make deferential rounds with him, if
+it took all day. And as it usually took at least two hours, the visits
+of the Generals, one or both, meant considerable interruption to the
+hospital routine. Sometimes, by chance, both Generals arrived at the
+same time, which meant that there were double rounds, beginning at
+opposite ends of the enclosure, and the surgeons were in a quandary as
+to whose suite they should attach themselves. And the days when it was
+busiest, when the work was hardest, when there was more work than double
+the staff could accomplish in twenty-four hours, were the days that the
+Generals usually appeared.
+
+There are some days when it is very bad in a field hospital, just as
+there are some days when there is nothing to do, and the whole staff is
+practically idle. The bad days are those when the endless roar of the
+guns makes the little wooden _baracques_ rock and rattle, and when
+endless processions of ambulances drive in and deliver broken, ruined
+men, and then drive off again, to return loaded with more wrecks. The
+beds in the _Salle d'Attente_, where the ambulances unload, are filled
+with heaps under blankets. Coarse, hobnailed boots stick out from the
+blankets, and sometimes the heaps, which are men, moan or are silent. On
+the floor lie piles of clothing, filthy, muddy, blood-soaked, torn or
+cut from the silent bodies on the beds. The stretcher bearers step over
+these piles of dirty clothing, or kick them aside, as they lift the
+shrinking bodies to the brown stretchers, and carry them across, one
+by one, to the operating room. The operating room is filled with
+stretchers, lying in rows upon the floor, waiting their turn to be
+emptied, to have their burdens lifted from them to the high operating
+tables. And as fast as the stretchers are emptied, the stretcher-bearers
+hurry back to the _Salle d'Attente_, where the ambulances dump their
+loads, and come over to the operating room again, with fresh lots. Three
+tables going in the operating room, and the white-gowned surgeons stand
+so thick around the tables that you cannot see what is on them. There
+are stretchers lying on the floor of the corridor, and against the walls
+of the operating room, and more ambulances are driving in all the time.
+
+From the operating room they are brought into the wards, these bandaged
+heaps from the operating tables, these heaps that once were men. The
+clean beds of the ward are turned back to receive them, to receive the
+motionless, bandaged heaps that are lifted, shoved, or rolled from the
+stretchers to the beds. Again and again, all day long, the procession of
+stretchers comes into the wards. The foremost bearer kicks open the door
+with his knee, and lets in ahead of him a blast of winter rain, which
+sets dancing the charts and papers lying on the table, and blows out the
+alcohol lamp over which the syringe is boiling. Someone bangs the door
+shut. The unconscious form is loaded on the bed. He is heavy and the bed
+sags beneath his weight. The _brancardiers_ gather up their red blankets
+and shuffle off again, leaving cakes of mud and streaks of muddy water
+on the green linoleum. Outside the guns roar and inside the _baracques_
+shake, and again and again the stretcher bearers come into the ward,
+carrying dying men from the high tables in the operating room. They are
+all that stand between us and the guns, these wrecks upon the beds.
+Others like them are standing between us and the guns, others like
+them, who will reach us before morning. Wrecks like these. They are old
+men, most of them. The old troops, grey and bearded.
+
+There is an attack going on. That does not mean that the Germans are
+advancing. It just means that the ambulances are busy, for these old
+troops, these old wrecks upon the beds, are holding up the Germans.
+Otherwise, we should be swept out of existence. Our hospital, ourselves,
+would be swept out of existence, were it not for these old wrecks upon
+the beds. These filthy, bearded, dying men upon the beds, who are
+holding back the Germans. More like them, in the trenches, are holding
+back the Germans. By tomorrow these others, too, will be with us,
+bleeding, dying. But there will be others like them in the trenches, to
+hold back the Germans.
+
+This is the day of an attack. Yesterday was the day of an attack. The
+day before was the day of an attack. The guns are raising Hell, seven
+kilometres beyond us, and our _baracques_ shake and tremble with their
+thunder. These men, grey and bearded, dying in our clean beds, wetting
+our clean sheets with the blood that oozes from their dressings, have
+been out there, moaning in the trenches. When they die, we will pull off
+the bloody sheets, and replace them with fresh, clean ones, and turn
+them back neatly, waiting for the next agonizing man. We have many beds,
+and many fresh, clean sheets, and so we are always ready for these old,
+hairy men, who are standing between us and the Germans.
+
+They seem very weak and frail and thin. How can they do it, these old
+men? Last summer the young boys did it. Now it is the turn of these old
+men.
+
+There are three dying in the ward today. It will be better when they
+die. The German shells have made them ludicrous, repulsive. We see them
+in this awful interval, between life and death. This interval when they
+are gross, absurd, fantastic. Life is clean and death is clean, but this
+interval between the two is gross, absurd, fantastic.
+
+Over there, down at the end, is Rollin. He came in three days ago. A
+piece of shell penetrated his right eyelid, a little wound so small that
+it was not worth a dressing. Yet that little piece of _obus_ lodged
+somewhere inside his skull, above his left ear, so the radiographist
+says, and he's paralyzed. Paralyzed all down the other side, and one
+supine hand flops about, and one supine leg flops about, in jerks. One
+bleary eye stays open, and the other eyelid stays shut, over the other
+bleary eye. Meningitis has set in and it won't be long now, before we'll
+have another empty bed. Yellow foam flows down his nose, thick yellow
+foam, bubbles of it, bursting, bubbling yellow foam. It humps up under
+his nose, up and up, in bubbles, and the bubbles burst and run in
+turgid streams down upon his shaggy beard. On the wall, above his bed,
+hang his medals. They are hung up, high up, so he can see them. He can't
+see them today, because now he is unconscious, but yesterday and the day
+before, before he got as bad as this, he could see them and it made him
+cry. He knew he had been decorated _in extremis_, because he was going
+to die, and he did not want to die. So he sobbed and sobbed all the
+while the General decorated him, and protested that he did not want to
+die. He'd saved three men from death, earning those medals, and at the
+time he never thought of death himself. Yet in the ward he sobbed and
+sobbed, and protested that he did not want to die.
+
+Back of those red screens is Henri. He is a priest, mobilized as
+_infirmier_. A good one too, and very tender and gentle with the
+patients. He comes from the ward next door, Salle II., and is giving
+extreme unction to the man in that bed, back of the red screens. Peek
+through the screens and you can see Henri, in his shirt sleeves, with a
+little, crumpled, purple stole around his neck. No, the patient has
+never regained consciousness since he's been here, but Henri says it's
+all right. He may be a Catholic. Better to take chances. It can't hurt
+him, anyway, if he isn't. I am glad Henri is back of those red screens.
+A few minutes ago he came down the ward, in search of absorbent cotton
+for the Holy Oils, and then he got so interested watching the doctors
+doing dressings, stayed so long watching them, that I thought he would
+not get back again, behind the screens, in time.
+
+See that man in the bed next? He's dying too. They trepanned him when he
+came. He can't speak, but we got his name and regiment from the medal on
+his wrist. He wants to write. Isn't it funny! He has a block of paper
+and a pencil, and all day long he writes, writes, on the paper. Always
+and always, over and over again, he writes on the paper, and he gives
+the paper to everyone who passes. He's got something on his mind that he
+wants to get across, before he dies. But no one can understand him. No
+one can read what he has written--it is just scrawls, scribbles,
+unintelligible. Day and night, for he never sleeps, he writes on that
+block of paper, and tears off the sheets and gives them to everyone
+who passes. And no one can understand, for it is just illegible,
+unintelligible scribbles. Once we took the paper away to see what he
+would do and then he wrote with his finger upon the wooden frame of the
+screen. The same thing, scribbles, but they made no mark on the screen,
+and he seemed so distressed because they made no mark that we gave him
+back his paper again, and now he's happy. Or I suppose he's happy. He
+seems content when we take this paper and pretend to read it. He seems
+happy, scribbling those words that are words to him but not to us.
+Careful! Don't stand too close! He spits. Yes, all the time, at the end
+of every line he spits. Far too. Way across the ward. Don't you see that
+his bed and the bed next are covered with rubber sheets? That's because
+he spits. Big spits, too, far across the ward. And always he writes,
+incessantly, day and night. He writes on that block of paper and spits
+way across the ward at the end of every line. He's got something on his
+mind that he wants to get across. Do you think he's thinking of the
+Germans? He's dying though. He can't spit so far today as he did
+yesterday.
+
+Death is dignified and life is dignified, but the intervals are awful.
+They are ludicrous, repulsive.
+
+Is that Erard, calling? Calling that the Generals are coming, both of
+them, together? Hurry! Tidy up the ward! Rub away the froth from under
+Rollin's nose! Pull his sheets straight! Take that wet towel, and clean
+the mackintosh upon that bed and the bed adjoining. See if Henri's
+finished. Take away the screens. Pull the sheets straight. Tidy up the
+ward--tell the others not to budge! The Generals are coming!
+
+    PARIS,
+9 May, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+WOMEN AND WIVES
+
+
+A bitter wind swept in from the North Sea. It swept in over many miles
+of Flanders plains, driving gusts of rain before it. It was a biting
+gale by the time it reached the little cluster of wooden huts composing
+the field hospital, and rain and wind together dashed against the huts,
+blew under them, blew through them, crashed to pieces a swinging window
+down at the laundry, and loosened the roof of Salle I. at the other end
+of the enclosure. It was just ordinary winter weather, such as had
+lasted for months on end, and which the Belgians spoke of as vile
+weather, while the French called it vile Belgian weather. The drenching
+rain soaked into the long, green winter grass, and the sweeping wind was
+bitter cold, and the howling of the wind was louder than the guns, so
+that it was only when the wind paused for a moment, between blasts, that
+the rolling of the guns could be heard.
+
+In Salle I. the stove had gone out. It was a good little stove, but
+somehow was unequal to struggling with the wind which blew down the
+long, rocking stove pipe, and blew the fire out. So the little stove
+grew cold, and the hot water jug on the stove grew cold, and all the
+patients at that end of the ward likewise grew cold, and demanded hot
+water bottles, and there wasn't any hot water with which to fill them.
+So the patients complained and shivered, and in the pauses of the wind,
+one heard the guns.
+
+Then the roof of the ward lifted about an inch, and more wind beat down,
+and as it beat down, so the roof lifted. The orderly remarked that if
+this Belgian weather continued, by tomorrow the roof would be clean
+off--blown off into the German lines. So all laughed as Fouquet said
+this, and wondered how they could lie abed with the roof of Salle I.,
+the Salle of the _Grands Blesses_, blown over into the German lines. The
+ward did not present a neat appearance, for all the beds were pushed
+about at queer angles, in from the wall, out from the wall, some
+touching each other, some very far apart, and all to avoid the little
+leaks of rain which streamed or dropped down from little holes in the
+roof. This weary, weary war! These long days of boredom in the hospital,
+these days of incessant wind and rain and cold.
+
+Armand, the chief orderly, ordered Fouquet to rebuild the fire, and
+Fouquet slipped on his _sabots_ and clogged down the ward, away outdoors
+in the wind, and returned finally with a box of coal on his shoulders,
+which he dumped heavily on the floor. He was clumsy and sullen, and the
+coal was wet and mostly slate, and the patients laughed at his efforts
+to rebuild the fire. Finally, however, it was alight again, and radiated
+out a faint warmth, which served to bring out the smell of iodoform, and
+of draining wounds, and other smells which loaded the cold, close air.
+Then, no one knows who began it, one of the patients showed the nurse a
+photograph of his wife and child, and in a moment every man in the
+twenty beds was fishing back of his bed, in his _musette_, under his
+pillow, for photographs of his wife. They all had wives, it seems, for
+remember, these were the old troops, who had replaced the young Zouaves
+who had guarded this part of the Front all summer. One by one they came
+out, these photographs, from weatherbeaten sacks, from shabby boxes,
+from under pillows, and the nurse must see them all. Pathetic little
+pictures they were, of common, working-class women, some fat and
+work-worn, some thin and work-worn, some with stodgy little children
+grouped about them, some without, but all were practically the same.
+They were the wives of these men in the beds here, the working-class
+wives of working-class men--the soldiers of the trenches. Ah yes, France
+is democratic. It is the Nation's war, and all the men of the Nation,
+regardless of rank, are serving. But some serve in better places than
+others. The trenches are mostly reserved for men of the working class,
+which is reasonable, as there are more of them.
+
+The rain beat down, and the little stove glowed, and the afternoon drew
+to a close, and the photographs of the wives continued to pass from hand
+to hand. There was much talk of home, and much of it was longing, and
+much of it was pathetic, and much of it was resigned. And always the
+little, ugly wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented home. And
+the words home and wife were interchangeable and stood for the same
+thing. And the glories and heroisms of war seemed of less interest, as
+a factor in life, than these stupid little wives.
+
+Then Armand, the chief orderly, showed them all the photograph of his
+wife. No one knew that he was married, but he said yes, and that he
+received a letter from her every day--sometimes it was a postcard. Also
+that he wrote to her every day. We all knew how nervous he used to get,
+about letter time, when the _vaguemestre_ made his rounds, every
+morning, distributing letters to all the wards. We all knew how
+impatient he used to get, when the _vaguemestre_ laid his letter upon
+the table, and there it lay, on the table, while he was forced to make
+rounds with the surgeon, and could not claim it until long afterwards.
+So it was from his wife, that daily letter, so anxiously, so nervously
+awaited!
+
+Simon had a wife too. Simon, the young surgeon, German-looking in
+appearance, six feet of blond brute. But not blond brute really.
+Whatever his appearance, there was in him something finer, something
+tenderer, something nobler, to distinguish him from the brute. About
+three times a week he walked into the ward with his fountain pen between
+his teeth--he did not smoke, but he chewed his fountain pen--and when
+the dressings were over, he would tell the nurse, shyly, accidentally,
+as it were, some little news about his home. Some little incident
+concerning his wife, some affectionate anecdote about his three young
+children. Once when one of the staff went over to London on vacation,
+Simon asked her to buy for his wife a leather coat, such as English
+women wear, for motoring. Always he thought of his wife, spoke of his
+wife, planned some thoughtful little surprise or gift for her.
+
+You know, they won't let wives come to the Front. Women can come into
+the War Zone, on various pretexts, but wives cannot. Wives, it appears,
+are bad for the morale of the Army. They come with their troubles, to
+talk of how business is failing, of how things are going to the bad at
+home, because of the war; of how great the struggle, how bitter the
+trials and the poverty and hardship. They establish the connecting link
+between the soldier and his life at home, his life that he is compelled
+to resign. Letters can be censored and all disturbing items cut out, but
+if a wife is permitted to come to the War Zone, to see her husband,
+there is no censoring the things she may tell him. The disquieting,
+disturbing things. So she herself must be censored, not permitted to
+come. So for long weary months men must remain at the Front, on active
+inactivity, and their wives cannot come to see them. Only other people's
+wives may come. It is not the woman but the wife that is objected to.
+There is a difference. In war, it is very great.
+
+There are many women at the Front. How do they get there, to the Zone
+of the Armies? On various pretexts--to see sick relatives, in such and
+such hospitals, or to see other relatives, brothers, uncles, cousins,
+other people's husbands--oh, there are many reasons which make it
+possible for them to come. And always there are the Belgian women, who
+live in the War Zone, for at present there is a little strip of Belgium
+left, and all the civilians have not been evacuated from the Army Zone.
+So there are plenty of women, first and last. Better ones for the
+officers, naturally, just as the officers' mess is of better quality
+than that of the common soldiers. But always there are plenty of women.
+Never wives, who mean responsibility, but just women, who only mean
+distraction and amusement, just as food and wine. So wives are
+forbidden, because lowering to the morale, but women are winked at,
+because they cheer and refresh the troops. After the war, it is hoped
+that all unmarried soldiers will marry, but doubtless they will not
+marry these women who have served and cheered them in the War Zone.
+That, again, would be depressing to the country's morale. It is rather
+paradoxical, but there are those who can explain it perfectly.
+
+No, no, I don't understand. It's because everything has two sides. You
+would be surprised to pick up a franc, and find Liberty, Equality, and
+Fraternity on one side, and on the other, the image of the Sower
+smoothed out. A rose is a fine rose because of the manure you put at its
+roots. You don't get a medal for sustained nobility. You get it for the
+impetuous action of the moment, an action quite out of keeping with the
+trend of one's daily life. You speak of the young aviator who was
+decorated for destroying a Zeppelin single-handed, and in the next
+breath you add, and he killed himself, a few days later, by attempting
+to fly when he was drunk. So it goes. There is a dirty sediment at the
+bottom of most souls. War, superb as it is, is not necessarily a
+filtering process, by which men and nations may be purified. Well, there
+are many people to write you of the noble side, the heroic side, the
+exalted side of war. I must write you of what I have seen, the other
+side, the backwash. They are both true. In Spain, they bang their silver
+coins upon a marble slab, accepting the stamp upon both sides, and then
+decide whether as a whole they ring true.
+
+Every now and then, Armand, the orderly, goes to the village to get a
+bath. He comes back with very clean hands and nails, and says that it
+has greatly solaced him, the warm water. Then later, that same evening,
+he gets permission to be absent from the hospital, and he goes to our
+village to a girl. But he is always as eager, as nervous for his wife's
+letter as ever. It is the same with Simon, the young surgeon. Only Simon
+keeps himself pretty clean at all times, as he has an orderly to bring
+him pitchers of hot water every morning, as many as he wants. But Simon
+has a girl in the village, to whom he goes every week. Only, why does he
+talk so incessantly about his wife, and show her pictures to me, to
+everyone about the place? Why should we all be bored with tales of
+Simon's stupid wife, when that's all she means to him? Only perhaps she
+means more. I told you I did not understand.
+
+Then the _Gestionnaire_, the little fat man in khaki, who is purveyor to
+the hospital. Every night he commandeers an ambulance, and drives back
+into the country, to a village twelve miles away, to sleep with a woman.
+And the old doctor--he is sixty-four and has grandchildren--he goes down
+to our village for a little girl of fourteen. He was decorated with the
+Legion of Honour the other day. It seems incongruous.
+
+Oh yes, of course these were decent girls at the start, at the
+beginning of the war. But you know women, how they run after men,
+especially when the men wear uniforms, all gilt buttons and braid. It's
+not the men's fault that most of the women in the War Zone are ruined.
+Have you ever watched the village girls when a regiment comes through,
+or stops for a night or two, _en repos_, on its way to the Front? Have
+you seen the girls make fools of themselves over the men? Well, that's
+why there are so many accessible for the troops. Of course the
+professional prostitutes from Paris aren't admitted to the War Zone, but
+the Belgian girls made such fools of themselves, the others weren't
+needed.
+
+Across the lines, back of the German lines, in the invaded districts, it
+is different. The conquering armies just ruined all the women they could
+get hold of. Any one will tell you that. _Ces sales Bosches!_ For it is
+inconceivable how any decent girl, even a Belgian, could give herself
+up voluntarily to a Hun! They used force, those brutes! That is the
+difference. It's all the difference in the world. No, the women over
+there didn't make fools of themselves over those men--how could they!
+No, no. Over there, in the invaded districts, the Germans forced those
+girls. Here, on this side, the girls cajoled the men till they gave in.
+Can't you see? You must be pro-German! Any way, they are all ruined and
+not fit for any decent man to mate with, after the war.
+
+They are pretty dangerous, too, some of these women. No, I don't mean in
+that way. But they act as spies for the Germans and get a lot of
+information out of the men, and send it back, somehow, into the German
+lines. The Germans stop at nothing, nothing is too dastardly, too low,
+for them to attempt. There were two Belgian girls once, who lived
+together in a room, in a little village back of our lines. They were
+natives, and had always lived there, so of course they were not turned
+out, and when the village was shelled from time to time, they did not
+seem to mind and altogether they made a lot of money. They only received
+officers. The common soldiers were just dirt to them, and they refused
+to see them. Certain women get known in a place, as those who receive
+soldiers and those who receive officers. These girls were intelligent,
+too, and always asked a lot of intelligent, interested questions, and
+you know a man when he is excited will answer unsuspectingly any
+question put to him. The Germans took advantage of that. It is easy to
+be a spy. Just know what questions you must ask, and it is surprising
+how much information you can get. The thing is, to know upon what
+point information is wanted. These girls knew that, it seems, and so
+they asked a lot of intelligent questions, and as they received only
+officers, they got a good lot of valuable information, for as I say,
+when a man is excited he will answer many questions. Besides, who could
+have suspected at first that these two girls were spies? But they were,
+as they found out finally, after several months. Their rooms were one
+day searched, and a mass of incriminating papers were discovered. It
+seems the Germans had taken these girls from their families--held their
+families as hostages--and had sent them across into the English lines,
+with threats of vile reprisals upon their families if they did not
+produce information of value. Wasn't it beastly! Making these girls
+prostitutes and spies, upon pain of reprisals upon their families. The
+Germans knew they were so attractive that they would receive only
+officers. That they would receive many clients, of high rank, of much
+information, who would readily fall victims to their wiles. They are
+very vile themselves, these Germans. The curious thing is, how well
+they understand how to bait a trap for their enemies. In spite of having
+nothing in common with them, how well they understand the nature of
+those who are fighting in the name of Justice, of Liberty and
+Civilization.
+
+    PARIS,
+4 May, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+POUR LA PATRIE
+
+
+This is how it was. It is pretty much always like this in a field
+hospital. Just ambulances rolling in, and dirty, dying men, and guns off
+there in the distance! Very monotonous, and the same, day after day,
+till one gets so tired and bored. Big things may be going on over there,
+on the other side of the captive balloons that we can see from a
+distance, but we are always here, on this side of them, and here, on
+this side of them, it is always the same. The weariness of it--the
+sameness of it! The same ambulances, and dirty men, and groans, or
+silence. The same hot operating rooms, the same beds, always full, in
+the wards. This is war. But it goes on and on, over and over, day after
+day, till it seems like life. Life in peace time. It might be life in a
+big city hospital, so alike is the routine. Only the city hospitals are
+bigger, and better equipped, and the ambulances are smarter, and the
+patients don't always come in ambulances--they walk in sometimes, or
+come in street cars, or in limousines, and they are of both sexes, men
+and women, and have ever so many things the matter with them--the
+hospitals of peace time are not nearly so stupid, so monotonous, as the
+hospitals of war. Bah! War's humane compared to peace! More spectacular,
+I grant you, more acute,--that's what interests us,--but for the sheer
+agony of life--oh, peace is way ahead!
+
+War is so clean. Peace is so dirty. There are so many foul diseases in
+peace times. They drag on over so many years, too. No, war's clean! I'd
+rather see a man die in prime of life, in war time, than see him
+doddering along in peace time, broken hearted, broken spirited, life
+broken, and very weary, having suffered many things,--to die at last, at
+a good, ripe age! How they have suffered, those who drive up to our city
+hospitals in limousines, in peace time. What's been saved them, those
+who die young, and clean and swiftly, here behind the guns. In the long
+run it dots up just the same. Only war's spectacular, that's all.
+
+Well, he came in like the rest, only older than most of them. A shock of
+iron-grey hair, a mane of it, above heavy, black brows, and the brows
+were contracted in pain. Shot, as usual, in the abdomen. He spent three
+hours on the table after admission--the operating table--and when he
+came over to the ward, they said, not a dog's chance for him. No more
+had he. When he came out of ether, he said he didn't want to die. He
+said he wanted to live. Very much. He said he wanted to see his wife
+again and his children. Over and over he insisted on this, insisted on
+getting well. He caught hold of the doctor's hand and said he must get
+well, that the doctor must get him well. Then the doctor drew away his
+slim fingers from the rough, imploring grasp, and told him to be good
+and patient.
+
+"Be good! Be patient!" said the doctor, and that was all he could say,
+for he was honest. What else could he say, knowing that there were
+eighteen little holes, cut by the bullet, leaking poison into that
+gashed, distended abdomen? When these little holes, that the doctor
+could not stop, had leaked enough poison into his system, he would die.
+Not today, no, but day after tomorrow. Three days more.
+
+So all that first day, the man talked of getting well. He was insistent
+on that. He was confident. Next day, the second of the three days the
+doctor gave him, very much pain laid hold of him. His black brows bent
+with pain and he grew puzzled. How could one live with such pain as
+that?
+
+That afternoon, about five o'clock, came the General. The one who
+decorates the men. He had no sword, just a riding whip, so he tossed the
+whip on the bed, for you can't do an accolade with anything but a sword.
+Just the _Medaille Militaire_. Not the other one. But the _Medaille
+Militaire_ carries a pension of a hundred francs a year, so that's
+something. So the General said, very briefly: "In the name of the
+Republic of France, I confer upon you the _Medaille Militaire_." Then he
+bent over and kissed the man on his forehead, pinned the medal to the
+bedspread, and departed.
+
+There you are! Just a brief little ceremony, and perfunctory. We all got
+that impression. The General has decorated so many dying men. And this
+one seemed so nearly dead. He seemed half-conscious. Yet the General
+might have put a little more feeling into it, not made it quite so
+perfunctory. Yet he's done this thing so many, many times before. It's
+all right, he does it differently when there are people about, but this
+time there was no one present--just the doctor, the dying man, and me.
+And so we four knew what it meant--just a widow's pension. Therefore
+there wasn't any reason for the accolade, for the sonorous, ringing
+phrases of a dress parade----
+
+We all knew what it meant. So did the man. When he got the medal, he
+knew too. He knew there wasn't any hope. I held the medal before him,
+after the General had gone, in its red plush case. It looked cheap,
+somehow. The exchange didn't seem even. He pushed it aside with a
+contemptuous hand sweep, a disgusted shrug.
+
+"I've seen these things before!" he exclaimed. We all had seen them too.
+We all knew about them, he and the doctor, and the General and I. He
+knew and understood, most of all. And his tone was bitter.
+
+After that, he knew the doctor couldn't save him, and that he should not
+see his wife and children again. Whereupon he became angry with the
+treatment, and protested against it. The _picqures_ hurt--they hurt very
+much, and he did not want them. Moreover, they did no good, for his pain
+was now very intense, and he tossed and tossed to get away from it.
+
+So the third day dawned, and he was alive, and dying, and knew that he
+was dying. Which is unusual and disconcerting. He turned over and over,
+and black fluid vomited from his mouth into the white enamel basin. From
+time to time, the orderly emptied the basin, but always there was more,
+and always he choked and gasped and knit his brows in pain. Once his
+face broke up as a child's breaks up when it cries. So he cried in pain
+and loneliness and resentment.
+
+He struggled hard to hold on. He wanted very much to live, but he could
+not do it. He said: "_Je ne tiens plus._"
+
+Which was true. He couldn't hold on. The pain was too great. He clenched
+his hands and writhed, and cried out for mercy. But what mercy had we?
+We gave him morphia, but it did not help. So he continued to cry to us
+for mercy, he cried to us and to God. Between us, we let him suffer
+eight hours more like that, us and God.
+
+Then I called the priest. We have three priests on the ward, as
+orderlies, and I got one of them to give him the Sacrament. I thought it
+would quiet him. We could not help him with drugs, and he had not got it
+quite in his head that he must die, and when he said, "I am dying," he
+expected to be contradicted. So I asked Capolarde to give him the
+Sacrament, and he said yes, and put a red screen around the bed, to
+screen him from the ward. Then Capolarde turned to me and asked me to
+leave. It was summer time. The window at the head of the bed was open,
+the hay outside was new cut and piled into little haycocks. Over in the
+distance the guns rolled. As I turned to go, I saw Capolarde holding a
+tray of Holy Oils in one hand, while with the other he emptied the basin
+containing black vomitus out the window.
+
+No, it did not bring him comfort, or resignation. He fought against it.
+He wanted to live, and he resented Death, very bitterly. Down at my end
+of the ward--it was a silent, summer afternoon--I heard them very
+clearly. I heard the low words from behind the screen.
+
+"_Dites:_ '_Dieu je vous donne ma vie librement pour ma patrie_'" (God, I
+give you my life freely for my country). The priests usually say that to
+them, for death has more dignity that way. It is not in the ritual, but
+it makes a soldier's death more noble. So I suppose Capolarde said it. I
+could only judge by the response. I could hear the heavy, laboured
+breath, the choking, wailing cry.
+
+"_Oui! Oui!_" gasped out at intervals. "_Ah mon Dieu! Oui!_"
+
+Again the mumbling, guiding whisper.
+
+"_Oui--oui!_" came sobbing, gasping, in response.
+
+So I heard the whispers, the priest's whispers, and the stertorous
+choke, the feeble, wailing, rebellious wailing in response. He was being
+forced into it. Forced into acceptance. Beaten into submission, beaten
+into resignation.
+
+"_Oui, oui_" came the protesting moans. "_Ah, oui!_"
+
+It must be dawning upon him now. Capolarde is making him see.
+
+"_Oui! Oui!_" The choking sobs reach me. "_Ah, mon Dieu, oui!_" Then
+very deep, panting, crying breaths:
+
+"_Dieu--je--vous--donne--ma--vie--librement--pour--ma--patrie!_"
+
+"_Librement! Librement! Ah, oui! Oui!_" He was beaten at last. The
+choking, dying, bewildered man had said the noble words.
+
+"God, I give you my life freely for my country!"
+
+After which came a volley of low toned Latin phrases, rattling in the
+stillness like the popping of a _mitrailleuse_.
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+Two hours later he was still alive, restless, but no longer resentful.
+"It is difficult to go," he murmured, and then: "Tonight, I shall sleep
+well." A long pause followed, and he opened his eyes.
+
+"Without doubt, the next world is more _chic_ than this," he remarked
+smiling, and then:
+
+"I was mobilized against my inclination. Now I have won the _Medaille
+Militaire_. My Captain won it for me. He made me brave. He had a
+revolver in his hand."
+
+
+
+
+LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA
+
+
+Just inside the entrance gates a big, flat-topped tent was pitched,
+which bore over the low door a signboard on which was painted, _Triage
+No. 1. Malades et Blesses Assis_. This meant that those _assis_, able to
+travel in the ambulances as "sitters," were to be deposited here for
+diagnosis and classification. Over beyond was the _Salle d'Attente_, the
+hut for receiving the _grands blesses_, but a tent was sufficient for
+sick men and those slightly wounded. It was an old tent, weatherbeaten,
+a dull, dirty grey. Within the floor was of earth, and along each side
+ran long, narrow, backless benches, on which the sick men and the
+slightly wounded sat, waiting sorting. A grey twilight pervaded the
+interior, and the everlasting Belgian rain beat down upon the creaking
+canvas, beat down in gentle, dripping patters, or in hard, noisy gusts,
+as it happened. It was always dry inside, however, and the earth floor
+was dusty, except at the entrance, where a triangle of mud projected
+almost to the doctor's table, in the middle.
+
+The _Salle d'Attente_ was different. It was more comfortable. The
+seriously wounded were unloaded carefully and placed upon beds covered
+with rubber sheeting, and clean sacking, which protected the thin
+mattresses from blood. The patients were afterwards covered with red
+blankets, and stone hot water bottles were also given them, sometimes.
+But in the sorting tent there were no such comforts. They were not
+needed. The sick men and the slightly wounded could sit very well on the
+backless benches till the _Medecin Major_ had time to come and examine
+them.
+
+Quite a company of "sitters" were assembled here one morning, helped out
+of two big ambulances that drove in within ten minutes of each other.
+They were a dejected lot, and they stumbled into the tent unsteadily,
+groping towards the benches, upon which they tried to pose their weary,
+old, fevered bodies in comfortable attitudes. And as it couldn't be
+done, there was a continual shifting movement, and unrest. Heavy legs in
+heavy wet boots were shoved stiffly forward, then dragged back again.
+Old, thin bodies bent forward, twisted sideways, coarse, filthy hands
+hung supine between spread knees, and then again the hands would change,
+and support whiskered, discouraged faces. They were all uncouth,
+grotesque, dejected, and they smelt abominably, these _poilus_, these
+hairy, unkempt soldiers. At their feet, their sacks lay, bulging with
+their few possessions. They hadn't much, but all they had lay there, at
+their feet. Old brown canvas sacks, bulging, muddy, worn, worn-out, like
+their owners. Tied on the outside were water cans, and extra boots, and
+bayonets, and inside were socks and writing paper and photographs of
+ugly wives. Therefore the ungainly sacks were precious, and they hugged
+them with their tired feet, afraid that they might lose them.
+
+Then finally the _Major_ arrived, and began the business of sorting
+them. He was brisk and alert, and he called them one by one to stand
+before him. They shuffled up to his little table, wavering, deprecating,
+humble, and answered his brief impatient questions. And on the spot he
+made snap diagnoses, such as rheumatism, bronchitis, kicked by a horse,
+knocked down by despatch rider, dysentery, and so on--a paltry, stupid
+lot of ailments and minor accidents, demanding a few days' treatment. It
+was a dull service, this medical service, yet one had to be always on
+guard against contagion, so the service was a responsible one. But the
+_Major_ worked quickly, sorted them out hastily, and then one by one
+they disappeared behind a hanging sheet, where the orderlies took off
+their old uniforms, washed the patients a little, and then led them to
+the wards. It was a stupid service! So different from that of the
+_grands blesses_! There was some interest in that! But this _eclope_
+business, these minor ailments, this stream of petty sickness, petty
+accidents, dirty skin diseases, and vermin--all war, if you like, but
+how _banale_!
+
+       *     *     *     *     *
+
+Later, in the medical wards, the _Major_ made his rounds, to inspect
+more carefully the men upon whom he had made snap diagnoses, to correct
+the diagnosis, if need be, and to order treatment. The chief treatment
+they needed was a bath, a clean bed, and a week of sleep, but the
+doctor, being fairly conscientious, thought to hurry things a little,
+to hasten the return of these old, tired men to the trenches, so that
+they might come back to the hospital again as _grands blesses_. In which
+event they would be interesting. So he ordered _ventouses_ or cupping,
+for the bronchitis cases. There is much bronchitis in Flanders, in the
+trenches, because of the incessant Belgian rain. They are sick with it
+too, poor devils. So said the _Major_ to himself as he made his rounds.
+
+Five men here, lying in a row, all ptomaine poisoning, due to some rank
+tinned stuff they'd been eating. Yonder there, three men with
+itch--filthy business! Their hands all covered with it, tearing at their
+bodies with their black, claw-like nails! The orderlies had not washed
+them very thoroughly--small blame to them! So the _Major_ made his
+rounds, walking slowly, very bored, but conscientious. These dull wrecks
+were needed in the trenches. He must make them well.
+
+At Bed 9, Andre stopped. Something different this time? He tried to
+recall it. Oh yes--in the sorting tent he'd noticed----
+
+"_Monsieur Major!_" A thin hand, clean and slim, rose to the salute. The
+bed covers were very straight, sliding neither to this side nor to that,
+as covers slide under restless pain.
+
+"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_."
+
+So Andre stopped, attentive. The man continued.
+
+"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_. Because of that, from the trenches I
+was removed a month ago. After that I was given a _fourgon_, a wagon in
+which to transport the loaves of bread. But soon it arrived that I could
+not climb to the high seat of my wagon, nor could I mount to the saddle
+of my horse. So I was obliged to lead my horses, stumbling at their
+bridles. So I have stumbled for the past four weeks. But now I cannot
+even do that. It is very painful."
+
+Andre passed a hand over his short, thick, upright hair, and smoothed
+his stiff brush reflectively. Then he put questions to the man,
+confidentially, and at the answers continued to rub backward his tight
+brush of hair. After which he disappeared from the ward for a time, but
+returned presently, bringing with him a Paris surgeon who happened to be
+visiting the Front that day. There also came with him another little
+doctor of the hospital staff, who was interested in what Andre had told
+him of the case. The three stood together at the foot of the bed,
+stroking their beards and their hair meditatively, while they plied the
+patient with questions. After which they directed Alphonse, the swarthy,
+dark orderly, who looked like a brigand, and Henri, the priest-orderly,
+to help the patient to rise.
+
+They stood him barefoot upon the floor, supporting him slightly by each
+elbow. To his knees, or just above them, fell a scant, gay, pink
+flannel nightshirt, his sole garment. It was one of many warm, gay
+nightshirts, pink and cheerful, that some women of America had sent over
+to the wounded heroes of France. It made a bright spot of colour in the
+sombre ward, and through the open window, one caught glimpses of green
+hop fields, and a windmill in the distance, waving its slow arms.
+
+"Walk," commanded Andre. "Walk to the door. Turn and return."
+
+The man staggered between the beds, holding to them, half bent over,
+fearful. Cool summer air blew in through the window, waving the pink
+nightshirt, making goose flesh rise on the shapely white legs that
+wavered. Then he moved down the ward, between the rows of beds, moving
+with uncertain, running, halting steps. Upon the linoleum, his bare feet
+flapped in soft thumps, groping wildly, interfering, knocking against
+each other. The man, trying to control them, gazed in fright from side
+to side. Down to the door he padded, rocked, swayed, turned and almost
+fell. Then back again he flapped.
+
+Dense stillness in the ward, broken only by the hard, unsteady thumping
+of the bare feet. The feet masterless, as the spirit had been
+masterless, years ago. The three judges in white blouses stood with arms
+folded, motionless. The patients in the beds sat up and tittered. The
+man who had been kicked by a horse raised himself and smiled. He who had
+been knocked down by a despatch rider sat up, as did those with
+bronchitis, and those with ptomaine poisoning. They sat up, looked, and
+sniggered. They knew. So did Andre. So did the Paris surgeon, and the
+little staff doctor, and the swarthy orderly and the priest-orderly.
+They all knew. The patient knew too. The laughter of his comrades told
+him.
+
+So he was to be released from the army, physically unfit. He could no
+longer serve his country. For many months he had faced death under the
+guns, a glorious death. Now he was to face death in another form. Not
+glorious, shameful. Only he didn't know much about it, and couldn't
+visualize it--after all, he might possibly escape. He who had so loved
+life. So he was rather pleased to be released from service.
+
+The patients in the surrounding beds ceased laughing. They had other
+things to think about. As soon as they were cured of the dysentery and
+of the itch, they were going back again to the trenches, under the guns.
+So they pitied themselves, and they rather envied him, being released
+from the army. They didn't know much about it, either. They couldn't
+visualize an imbecile, degrading, lingering death. They could only
+comprehend escape from sudden death, under the guns.
+
+One way or another, it is about the same. Tragedy either way, and death
+either way. But the tragedies of peace equal the tragedies of war. The
+sum total of suffering is the same. They balance up pretty well.
+
+    PARIS,
+18 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+A SURGICAL TRIUMPH
+
+
+In the Latin Quarter, somewhere about the intersection of the Boulevard
+Montparnasse with the rue de Rennes--it might have been even a little
+way back of the Gare Montparnasse, or perhaps in the other direction
+where the rue Vabin cuts into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs--any one who
+knows the Quarter will know about it at once--there lived a little
+hairdresser by the name of Antoine. Some ten years ago Antoine had moved
+over from Montmartre, for he was a good hairdresser and a thrifty soul,
+and he wanted to get on in life, and at that time nothing seemed to him
+so profitable an investment as to set up a shop in the neighbourhood
+patronized by Americans. American students were always wanting their
+hair washed, so he was told--once a week at least--and in that they
+differed from the Russian and Polish and Roumanian and other students of
+Paris, a fact which determined Antoine to go into business at the
+Montparnasse end of the Quarter, rather than at the lower end, say round
+the Pantheon and Saint-Etienne-du-Mont. And as he determined to put his
+prices low, in order to catch the trade, so later on when his business
+thrived enormously, he continued to keep them low, in order to maintain
+his clients. For if you once get used to having your hair washed for two
+francs, and very well done at that, it is annoying to find that the
+price has gone up over night to the prices one pays on the Boulevard
+Capucines. Therefore for ten years Antoine continued to wash hair at two
+francs a head, and at the same time he earned quite a reputation for
+himself as a marvellous good person when it came to waves and curls. So
+that when the war broke out, and his American clients broke and ran, he
+had a neat, tidy sum saved up, and could be fairly complacent about it
+all. Moreover, he was a lame man, one leg being some three inches
+shorter than the other, due to an accident in childhood, so he had never
+done his military service in his youth, and while not over military age,
+even yet, there was no likelihood of his ever being called upon to do
+it. So he stood in the doorway of his deserted shop, for all his young
+assistants, his curlers and shampooers, had been mobilized, and looked
+up and down the deserted street, and congratulated himself that he was
+not in as bad a plight, financially and otherwise, as some of his
+neighbours.
+
+Next door to him was a restaurant where the students ate, many of them.
+It had enjoyed a high reputation for cheapness, up to the war, and twice
+a day had been thronged with a mixed crowd of sculptors and painters
+and writers, and just dilettantes, which latter liked to patronize it
+for what they were pleased to call "local colour." Well, look at it now,
+thought the thrifty Antoine. Everyone gone, except a dozen stranded
+students who had not money enough to escape, and who, in the kindness of
+their hearts, continued to eat here "on credit," in order to keep the
+proprietor going. Even such a fool as the proprietor must see, sooner or
+later, that patronage of this sort could lead nowhere, from the point of
+view of profits--in fact, it was ridiculous.
+
+Antoine, lounging in his doorway, thought of his son. His only son, who,
+thank God, was too young to enter the army. By the time he was old
+enough for his military service, the war would all be over--it could not
+last, at the outside, more than six weeks or a couple of months--so
+Antoine had no cause for anxiety on that account. The lad was a fine,
+husky youth, with a sprouting moustache, which made him look older than
+his seventeen years. He was being taught the art of washing hair, and of
+curling and dyeing the same, on the human head or aside from it, as the
+case might be, and he could snap curling irons with a click to inspire
+confidence in the minds of the most fastidious, so altogether, thought
+Antoine, he had a good future before him. So the war had no terrors for
+Antoine, and he was able to speculate freely upon the future of his son,
+which seemed like a very bright, admirable future indeed, in spite of
+the disturbances of the moment. Nor did he need to close the doors of
+his establishment either, in spite of the loss of his assistants, and
+the loss of his many customers who kept those assistants as well as
+himself busy. For there still remained in Paris a good many American
+heads to be washed, from time to time--rather foolhardy, adventurous
+heads, curious, sensation hunting heads, who had remained in Paris to
+see the war, or as much of it as they could, in order to enrich their
+own personal experience. With which point of view Antoine had no
+quarrel, although there were certain of his countrymen who wished these
+inquisitive foreigners would return to their native land, for a variety
+of reasons.
+
+As the months rolled along, however, he who had been so farseeing, so
+thrifty a business man, seemed to have made a mistake. His calculations
+as to the duration of the war all went wrong. It seemed to be lasting an
+unconscionable time, and every day it seemed to present new phases for
+which no immediate settlement offered itself. Thus a year dragged away,
+and Antoine's son turned eighteen, and his moustache grew to be so
+imposing that his father commanded him to shave it. At the end of
+another two months, Antoine found it best to return his son to short
+trousers, for although the boy was stout and fat, he was not tall, and
+in short trousers he looked merely an overgrown fat boy, and Antoine
+was growing rather worried as he saw the lads of the young classes
+called to the colours. Somewhere, in one of the _Mairies_ of Paris--over
+at Montmartre, perhaps, where he had come from, or at the _Prefecture de
+Police_, or the _Cite_--Antoine knew that there a record of his son's
+age and attainments, which might be used against him at any moment, and
+as the weeks grew into months, it seemed certain that the class to which
+this precious son belonged would be called on for military service. Then
+very hideous weeks followed for Antoine, weeks of nervous suspense and
+dread. Day by day, as the lad grew in proficiency and aptitude, as he
+became more and more expert in the matters of his trade, as he learned a
+delicate, sure touch with the most refractory hair, and could expend the
+minimum of gas on the drying machine, and the minimum of soap lather,
+and withal attain the best results in pleasing his customers, so grew
+the danger of his being snatched away from this wide life spread out
+before him, of being forced to fight for his glorious country. Poor fat
+boy! On Sundays he used to parade the Raspail with a German shepherd dog
+at his heels--bought two years ago as a German shepherd, but now called
+a Belgian Police dog--how could he lay aside his little trousers and
+become a soldier of France! Yet every day that time drew nearer, till
+finally one day the summons came, and the lad departed, and Antoine
+closed his shutters for a whole week, mourning desperately. And he was
+furious against England, which had not made her maximum effort, had not
+mobilized her men, had continued with business as usual, had made no
+attempt to end the war--wouldn't do so, until France had become
+exhausted. And he was furious against Russia, swamped in a bog of
+political intrigue, which lacked organization and munitions and
+leadership, and was totally unable to drawing off the Bosches on the
+other frontier, and delivering a blow to smash them. In fact, Antoine
+was far more furious against the Allies of France than against Germany
+itself. And his rage and grief absolutely overbalanced his pride in his
+son, or his ambitions as to his son's possible achievements. The boy
+himself did not mind going, when he was called, for he was something of
+a fatalist, being so young, and besides, he could not foresee things.
+But Antoine, little lame man, had much imagination and foresaw a great
+deal.
+
+Mercifully, he could not foresee what actually happened. Thus it was a
+shock to him. He learned that his son was wounded, and then followed
+many long weeks while the boy lay in hospital, during which time many
+kind-hearted Red Cross ladies wrote to Antoine, telling him to be of
+brave heart and of good courage. And Antoine, being a rich man, in a
+small hairdressing way, took quite large sums of money out of the bank
+from time to time, and sent them to the Red Cross ladies, to buy for his
+son whatever might be necessary to his recovery. He heard from the
+hospital in the interior--for they were taking most of the wounded to
+the interior, at that time, for fear of upsetting Paris by the sight of
+them in the streets--that artificial legs were costly. Thus he steeled
+himself to the fact that his son would be more hideously lame than he
+himself. There was some further consultation about artificial arms,
+rather vague, but Antoine was troubled. Then he learned that a
+marvellous operation had been performed upon the boy, known as plastic
+surgery, that is to say, the rebuilding, out of other parts of the body,
+of certain features of the face that are missing. All this while he
+heard nothing directly from the lad himself, and in every letter from
+the Red Cross ladies, dictated to them, the boy begged that neither his
+father nor his mother would make any attempt to visit him at the
+hospital, in the interior, till he was ready.
+
+Finally, the lad was "ready." He had been four or five months in
+hospital, and the best surgeons of the country had done for him the best
+they knew. They had not only saved his life, but, thanks to his father's
+money, he had been fitted out with certain artificial aids to the human
+body which would go far towards making life supportable. In fact, they
+expressed themselves as extremely gratified with what they had been able
+to do for the poor young man, nay, they were even proud of him. He was a
+surgical triumph, and as such they were returning him to Paris, by such
+and such a train, upon such and such a day. Antoine went to meet the
+train.
+
+In a little room back of the hairdressing shop, Antoine looked down upon
+the surgical triumph. This triumph was his son. The two were pretty
+well mixed up. A passion of love and a passion of furious resentment
+filled the breast of the little hairdresser. Two very expensive, very
+good artificial legs lay on the sofa beside the boy. They were nicely
+jointed and had cost several hundred francs. From the same firm it would
+also be possible to obtain two very nice artificial arms, light, easily
+adjustable, well hinged. A hideous flabby heap, called a nose, fashioned
+by unique skill out of the flesh of his breast, replaced the little snub
+nose that Antoine remembered. The mouth they had done little with. All
+the front teeth were gone, but these could doubtless be replaced, in
+time, by others. Across the lad's forehead was a black silk bandage,
+which could be removed later, and in his pocket there was an address
+from which artificial eyes might be purchased. They would have fitted
+him out with eyes, in the provinces, except that such were better
+obtainable in Paris. Antoine looked down upon this wreck of his son that
+lay before him, and the wreck, not appreciating that he was a surgical
+triumph, kept sobbing, kept weeping out of his sightless eyes, kept
+jerking his four stumps in supplication, kept begging in agony:
+
+"Kill me, Papa!"
+
+However, Antoine couldn't do this, for he was civilized.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE TELEPHONE
+
+
+As he hadn't died in the ambulance, coming from the _Poste de Secours_,
+the surgeons concluded that they would give him another chance, and risk
+it on the operating table. He was nearly dead, anyway, so it didn't much
+matter, although the chance they proposed to give him wasn't even a
+fighting chance--it was just one in a thousand, some of them put it at
+one in ten thousand. Accordingly, they cut his clothes off in the _Salle
+d'Attente_, and carried him, very dirty and naked, to the operating
+room. Here they found that his ten-thousandth chance would be diminished
+if they gave him a general anaesthetic, so they dispensed with chloroform
+and gave him spinal anaesthesia, by injecting something into his spinal
+canal, between two of the low vertebrae. This completely relieved him of
+pain, but made him talkative, and when they saw he was conscious like
+that, it was decided to hold a sheet across the middle of him, so that
+he could not see what was going on, on the other side of the sheet,
+below his waist.
+
+The temperature in the operating room was stifling hot, and the sweat
+poured in drops from the brows of the surgeons, so that it took an
+orderly, with a piece of gauze, to swab them constantly. However, for
+all the heat, the man was stone cold and ashen grey, and his nostrils
+were pinched and dilated, while his breath came in gasps, forty to the
+minute. Yet, as I say, he was talkative, and his stream of little, vapid
+remarks, at his end of the sheet, did much to drown the clicking and
+snapping of clamps on the other side of it, where the surgeons were
+working to give him his one chance.
+
+A nurse held the sheet on one side of the table, and a priest-orderly
+held it at the other, and at his head stood a doctor, and the
+_Directrice_ and another nurse, answering the string of vapid remarks
+and trying to sooth him. And three feet farther along, hidden from him
+and the little clustering company of people trying to distract his
+attention, stood the two surgeons, and the two young students, and just
+the tops of their hair could be seen over the edge of the sheet. They
+whispered a little from time to time, and worked very rapidly, and there
+was quite animated talking when the bone saw began to rasp.
+
+The man babbled of his home, and of his wife. He said he wanted to see
+her again, very much. And the priest-orderly, who wanted to drop his end
+of the sheet and administer the last Sacrament at once, grew very
+nervous and uneasy. So the man rambled on, gasping, and they replied to
+him in soothing manner, and told him that there was a chance that he
+might see her again. So he talked about her incessantly, and with
+affection, and his whispered words and the cheery replies quite drowned
+out the clicking and the snapping of the clamps. After a short while,
+however, his remarks grew less coherent, and he seemed to find himself
+back in the trenches, telephoning. He tried hard to telephone, he tried
+hard to get the connection. The wires seemed to be cut, however, and he
+grew puzzled, and knit his brows and swore, and tried again and again,
+over and over. He had something to say over the telephone, the trench
+communication wire, and his mind wandered, and he tried very hard, in
+his wandering mind, to get the connection. A shell had cut the line
+evidently. He grew annoyed and restless, and gazed anxiously and
+perplexedly at the white sheet, held so steadily across his middle.
+From the waist down he could not move, so all his restlessness took
+place on the upper side of the sheet, and he was unaware of what was
+going on on the other side of it, and so failed to hear the incessant
+rattle of clamps and the subdued whispers from the other side.
+
+He struggled hard to get the connection, in his mind, over the
+telephone. The wires seemed to be cut, and he cried out in anxiety and
+distress. Then he grew more and more feeble, and gasped more and more,
+and became almost inarticulate, in his efforts. He was distressed. But
+suddenly he got it. He screamed out very loud, relieved, satisfied,
+triumphant, startling them all.
+
+"_Ca y est, maintenant! Ca y est! C'est le bon Dieu a l'appareil_!" (All
+right now! All right! It is the good God at the telephone!)
+
+A drop of blood spotted the sheet, a sudden vivid drop which spread
+rapidly, coming through. The surgeon raised himself.
+
+"Finished here!" he exclaimed with satisfaction.
+
+"Finished here," repeated the _Directrice_.
+
+    PARIS,
+26 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+A CITATION
+
+
+As a person, Grammont amounted to very little. In private life, before
+the war broke out, he had been an acrobat in the streets of Paris, and
+after that he became a hotel boy in some little fifth-rate hotel over
+behind the Gare St. Lazare. That had proved his undoing, for even the
+fifth-rate French travelling salesmen and sharpers and adventurers who
+patronized the hotel had money enough for him to steal. He stole a
+little, favoured by his position as _garcon d'hotel_, and the theft had
+landed him, not in jail, but in the _Bataillon d'Afrique_. He had served
+in that for two years, doing his military service in the _Bataillon
+d'Afrique_ instead of jail, while working off his five year sentence,
+and then war being declared, his regiment was transferred from Morocco
+to France, to Flanders, to the front line trenches, and in course of
+time he arrived one day at the hospital with a piece of shell in his
+spleen.
+
+He was pretty ill when brought in, and if he had died promptly, as he
+should have done, it would have been better. But it happened at that
+time that there was a surgeon connected with the hospital who was bent
+on making a reputation for himself, and this consisted in trying to
+prolong the lives of wounded men who ought normally and naturally to
+have died. So this surgeon worked hard to save Grammont, and certainly
+succeeded in prolonging his life, and in prolonging his suffering, over
+a very considerable portion of time. He worked hard over him, and he
+used on him everything he could think of, everything that money could
+buy. Every time he had a new idea as to treatment, no matter how costly
+it might be, he mentioned it to the _Directrice_, who sent to Paris and
+got it. All the while Grammont remained in bed, in very great agony, the
+surgeon making copious notes on the case, noting that under such and
+such circumstances, under conditions such as the following, such and
+such remedies and treatment proved futile and valueless. Grammont had a
+hole in his abdomen, when he entered, about an inch long. After about a
+month, this hole was scientifically increased to a foot in length,
+rubber drains stuck out in all directions, and went inwards as well,
+pretty deep, and his pain was enhanced a hundredfold, while his chances
+of recovery were not bright. But Grammont had a good constitution, and
+the surgeon worked hard over him, for if he got well, it would be a
+wonderful case, and the surgeon's reputation would benefit. Grammont
+bore it all very patiently, and did not ask to be allowed to die, as
+many of them did, for since he was of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, such a
+request would be equivalent to asking for a remission of sentence--a
+sentence which the courts averred he justly deserved and merited. They
+took no account of the fact that his ethics were those of a wandering
+juggler, turning somersaults on a carpet at the public _fetes_ of Paris,
+and had been polished off by contact with the men and women he had
+encountered in his capacity of _garcon d'hotel_, in a fifth-rate hotel
+near Montmartre. On the contrary, they rather expected of him the
+decencies and moralities that come from careful nurture, and these not
+being forthcoming, they had sent him to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, where
+his eccentricities would be of no danger to the public.
+
+So Grammont continued to suffer, over a period of several long months,
+and he was sufficiently cynical, owing to his short experience of life,
+to realize that the surgeon, who worked over him so constantly and
+solicitously, was not solely and entirely disinterested in his efforts
+to make him well. Grammont had no life to return to, that was the
+trouble. Everyone knew it. The surgeon knew it, and the orderlies knew
+it, and his comrades in the adjoining beds knew it--he had absolutely no
+future before him, and there was not much sense in trying to make him
+well enough to return to Paris, a hopeless cripple. He lay in hospital
+for several months, suffering greatly, but greatly patient. During that
+time, he received no letters, for there was no one to write to him. He
+was an _apache_, he belonged to a criminal regiment, and he had no
+family anyhow, and his few friends, tattooed all over the body like
+himself, were also members of the same regiment, and as such, unable to
+do much for him in civil life after the war. Such it is to be a
+_joyeux_, to belong to a regiment of criminals, and to have no family to
+speak of.
+
+Grammont knew that it would be better for him to die, but he did not
+like to protest against this painful prolonging of his life. He was
+pretty well sick of life, but he had to submit to the kind treatment
+meted out to him, to twist his mouth into a wry smile when the
+_Directrice_ asked him each day if he was not better, and to accept
+without wincing all the newest devices that the surgeon discovered for
+him. There was some sense in saving other people's lives, but there was
+no sense in saving his. But the surgeon, who was working for a
+reputation, worked hand in hand with the _Directrice_ who wanted her
+hospital to make a reputation for saving the lives of the _grands
+blesses_. Grammont was the victim of circumstances, as usual, but it was
+all in his understanding of life, this being caught up in the ambitions
+of others, so he had to submit.
+
+After about three months of torture, during which time he grew weaker
+and smelled worse every day, it finally dawned on the nurse that
+perhaps this life-saving business was not wholly desirable. If he got
+"well," in the mildest acceptation of the term, he would be pretty well
+disabled, and useless and good for nothing. And if he was never going to
+get well, for which the prospects seemed bright enough, why force him
+along through more weeks of suffering, just to try out new remedies?
+Society did not want him, and he had no place in it. Besides, he had
+done his share, in the trenches, in protecting its best traditions.
+
+Then they all began to notice, suddenly, that in bed Grammont was
+displaying rather nice qualities, such as you would not expect from a
+_joyeux_, a social outcast. He appeared to be extremely patient, and
+while his face twisted up into knots of pain, most of the time, he did
+not cry out and disturb the ward as he might have done. This was nice
+and considerate, and other good traits were discovered too. He was not a
+nuisance, he was not exacting, he did not demand unreasonable things,
+or refuse to submit to unreasonable things, when these were demanded of
+him. In fact, he seemed to accept his pain as God-given, and with a
+fatalism which in some ways was rather admirable. He could not help
+smelling like that, for he was full of rubber drains and of gauze
+drains, and if the doctor was too busy to dress his wounds that day, and
+so put him off till the next, it was not his fault for smelling so
+vilely. He did not raise any disturbance, nor make any complaint, on
+certain days when he seemed to be neglected. Any extra discomfort that
+he was obliged to bear, he bore stoically. Altogether, after some four
+months of this, it was discovered that Grammont had rather a remarkable
+character, a character which merited some sort of recognition. He seemed
+to have rather heroic qualities of endurance, of bravery, of discipline.
+Nor were they the heroic qualities that suddenly develop in a moment of
+exaltation, but on the contrary, they were developed by months of
+extreme agony, of extreme bodily pain. He could have been so
+disagreeable, had he chosen. And as he cared so little to have his life
+saved, his goodness could not have been due to that. It seemed that he
+was merely very decent, very considerate of others, and wanted to give
+as little trouble as he could, no matter what took place. Only he got
+thinner and weaker, and more and more gentle, and at last after five
+months of this, the _Directrice_ was touched by his conduct and
+suggested that here was a case of heroism as well worthy of the _Croix
+de Guerre_ as were the more spectacular movements on the battlefield. It
+took a few weeks longer, of gentle suggestion on her part, to convey
+this impression to the General, but at last the General entered into
+correspondence with the officers of the regiment to which Grammont
+belonged, and it then transpired that as a soldier Grammont had
+displayed the same qualities of consideration for others and of
+discipline, that he was now displaying in a hospital bed. Finally one
+day, the news came that Grammont was to be decorated. Everyone else in
+the ward, who deserved it, had been decorated long ago, naturally, for
+they had not belonged to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_. Their services had
+been recognized long ago. Now, however, after these many months of
+suffering, Grammont was to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He was nearly
+dead by this time. When told the news, he smiled faintly. He did not
+seem to care. It seemed to make very little impression upon him. Yet it
+should have made an impression, for he was a convicted criminal, and it
+was a condescension that he should be so honoured at all. He had somehow
+won this honour, this token of forgiveness, by suffering so long, so
+uncomplainingly. However, a long delay took place, although finally his
+papers came, his citation, in which he was cited in the orders of the
+regiment as having done a very brave deed, under fire. He smiled a
+little at that. It had taken place so long ago, this time when he had
+done the deed, received the wound that kept him suffering so long. It
+seemed so little worth while to acknowledge it now, after all these
+months, when he was just ready to leave.
+
+Then more delay took place, and Grammont got weaker, and the orderlies
+said among themselves that if the General was ever going to decorate
+this man, that he had better hurry up. However, so long a time had
+passed that it did not much matter. Grammont was pleased with his
+citation. It seemed to make it all right for him, somehow. It seemed to
+give him standing among his fellow patients. The hideous tattoo marks on
+his arms and legs, chest and back, which proclaimed him an _apache_,
+which showed him such every time his wound was dressed, were about to
+be overlaid with a decoration for bravery upon the field of battle. But
+still the General did not come. Grammont grew very weak and feeble and
+his patience became exhausted. He held on as long as he could. So he
+died finally, after a long pull, just twenty minutes before the General
+arrived with his medals.
+
+    PARIS,
+27 June, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+AN INCIDENT
+
+
+At the intersection of the rue du Bac and the Boulevard St. Germain
+rises the statue of Claude Chappe, rising like a rock in the midst of
+the stream of traffic, and like a rock splitting the stream and
+diverting it into currents which flow east and west, north and south,
+smoothly and without collision. In guiding the stream of traffic and
+directing its orderly flow, the statue of Claude Chappe is greatly
+assisted by the presence of an _agent de police_, with a picturesque
+cape and a picturesque sword, and who controls the flow of vehicles with
+as much precision as a London policeman, although there are those who
+profess that a London policeman is the only one who understands the
+business. Before the war, when the omnibuses ran, the _agent de police_
+was always on duty; since the war, when the Paris omnibuses are all at
+the Front, carrying meat to the soldiers, there are certain times during
+the day when the whole responsibility for traffic regulation falls upon
+the statue of Claude Chappe. It was at one of these times, when Claude
+Chappe was standing head in air as usual, and failed to regard the
+comings and goings of the street, that this incident occurred.
+
+Down on the Quai, an officer of the French army stepped into a little
+victoria, a shabby little _voiture de place_, which trotted him up the
+rue du Bac and then essayed to take him along the Boulevard St. Germain
+to the _Ministere de la Guerre_. Coming along the boulevard in the
+opposite direction, was a little lad of fifteen, bending low over the
+handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon, the box of which contained
+enough kilos to have taxed a strong man or an old horse. Men are scarce
+in Paris, however, and the little delivery boy, who could not possibly
+have been available for the army for another three years, was doing a
+man's work, or a horse's work, as you please. The French are a thrifty
+race, and the possibilities being that the war will all be over before
+that time, it mattered little whether this particular boy developed a
+hernia, or tuberculosis, or any other malady which might unfit him for
+future military service. At present he was earning money for his
+_patron_, which was all that really mattered. So the little boy on the
+tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the horse of the shabby victoria,
+conveying the French officer, and the _agent de police_ was absent, and
+the statue of Claude Chappe stood, as usual, head in air.
+
+Quite a _melee_ ensued. The old horse, which should long ago have been
+in a butcher's shop, avoided the tricycle, with true French thrift, but
+stepped squarely upon the face of the little boy sprawling under its
+hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the fingers of the lad's right
+hand. War itself could not have been more disastrous. The youth rose to
+his feet, screaming. The cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the
+officer in the little carriage leaned back and twirled the ends of his
+neat moustache. The _agent de police_, who should have been on duty at
+the statue, arrived hastily from a nearby cafe. He always took two hours
+off for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he was obliged on this
+occasion to cut his lunch hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone was
+frightfully annoyed, but no one was more annoyed than the officer in the
+cab, on his way to the Minister of War.
+
+He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat imperturbable, one arm lying
+negligently along the back of the seat, the fingers of the other hand
+caressing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes
+rolled upwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which was not, at that
+moment, flying over Paris. The cabby got down from his seat, and with
+much vociferation called upon the officer to witness that it was not his
+fault. The crowd, who had not witnessed the accident, crowded round the
+policeman, giving testimony to what they had not seen. The sobbing boy
+was led into a chemist's. Still the people did not disperse. They
+pressed round the cab, and began shouting to the disinterested officer.
+The officer who cared not where the old horse had stepped. The officer
+who continued to loll back against the shabby cushions, to look upward
+at the sky, to remain indifferent to the taximeter, which skipped
+briskly from eighty-five centimes to ninety-five centimes, and continued
+ticking on. Women crowded round the cab, regarding its occupant. Was
+this one who commanded their sons at the Front, who had therefore seen
+so much, been through so much, that the sight of a little boy stamped
+on meant nothing to him? Had he seen so much suffering _en gros_ that it
+meant nothing to him _en detail_? Or was this his attitude to all
+suffering? Was this the Nation's attitude to the suffering of their
+sons? Or was this officer one who had never been to the Front, an
+_embusque_, one of the protected ones, who occupied soft snaps in the
+rear, safe places from which to draw their pay? The crowd increased
+every minute. They speculated volubly. They surrounded the cab, voicing
+their speculations. They finally became so unbearable that the officer's
+boredom vanished. His annoyance became such, his impatience at the delay
+became such that he slid down from the shabby cushions, and without
+paying his fare, disappeared in the direction of the _Ministere de la
+Guerre_.
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                      _A Selection from the
+                          Catalogue of_
+
+                       G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
+
+
+                     Complete Catalogue sent
+                         on application
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                        The Night Cometh
+
+                              By
+
+                          Paul Bourget
+
+                   Translated by Frederic Lees
+
+                         _12 deg. $1.35_
+
+
+Perhaps the most important work of imagination yet written under the
+influence of the war. A French military hospital is the scene of the
+story, and its chief characters are a famous Paris surgeon and a young
+wounded officer, whose fervent Catholic piety is in sharp contrast with
+the doctor's philosophic materialism. Death threatens both, and their
+opposing theories with regard to it are displayed in their relation to
+a drama of the most intense human passion.
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
+
+               New York                     London
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                             Halt!
+                          Who's There?
+
+                        By the Author of
+                    "Aunt Sarah and the War"
+
+               _75 cents net. Postage additional_
+
+
+A volume comparable to _Aunt Sarah and the War_ from the pen of the
+author of that book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the cases
+recorded are those of men who, though wounded in body, are spiritually
+whole. It is the ideals of England,--the essential England that, when
+the hour strikes, is all courage--that manifest themselves throughout.
+And be it said that it is an epitome not only of the spirit of England
+but of the United Kingdom, with the emphasis on the united. There is a
+fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy running through the book, and
+much of poignancy in the personal dramas glimpsed through its pages.
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
+
+               New York                     London
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                          A TALL SHIP
+                    ON OTHER NAVAL OCCASIONS
+
+                          BY BARTIMEUS
+
+                  _12 deg. PICTURE WRAPPER. $1.00_
+
+
+Tales descriptive of life in the British Navy under stress of war-time
+conditions--the life of the officers' mess, and the stoke-hole--the
+grime as well as the glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of parting, of
+the strain of long waiting for the enemy, of sinking ships and struggles
+in the waves--and also of the bright side that not even war can
+extinguish.
+
+
+                       G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
+
+               NEW YORK                     LONDON
+
+
+                    *     *     *     *     *
+
+
+                            News from
+                            Somewhere
+
+                               By
+
+                           James Milne
+
+           Author of "The Romance of a Pro-Consul," etc.
+
+                  _12 deg. $1.50 net. Frontispiece_
+
+
+"Many things seen, heard, and thought during travels at home, on sea and
+oversea, in the war-time which we call 'Armageddon.' It is a chronicle
+of war impressions gathered during travel, near and far, on its edges
+red and jagged."
+
+"This indeed is a book of the war but it is not like the others. There
+is in it nothing that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must be in
+nearly every other volume that is wrought about Armageddon. There is
+sadness in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is an immensity of
+pathos. There is much that is beautiful. And all of it is true."--_The
+Daily Telegraph._
+
+"Great in spirit ... a book that will surely outlive the war."--_The
+Graphic._
+
+
+                       G. P. Putnam's Sons
+
+               New York                     London
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BACKWASH OF WAR ***
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