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diff --git a/26884.txt b/26884.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..206677d --- /dev/null +++ b/26884.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2914 @@ +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. 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