Then, somewhere,
a door is unhurriedly opened. Maybe a priest alights and looks about
him. Perhaps it is a nurse who steps down and takes a comprehensive
survey of conditions. There is no talking, no uproar. A few men may
come up to assist in lifting out the stretchers, an ambulance driver
who salutes and indicates with a gesture where his car is stationed.
There are no onlookers. This is business, the grim business of war.
The line of stretchers on the station platform grows. The men lie on
them, impassive. They have waited so long. They have lain on the
battlefield, in the trench, behind the line at the dressing shed,
waiting, always waiting. What is a little time more or less, now?
The patience of the injured! I have been in many hospitals. I have
seen pneumonia and typhoid patients lying in the fearful apathy of
disease. They are very sad to see, very tragic, but their patience is
the lethargy of half consciousness. Their fixed eyes see visions. The
patience of the wounded is the resignation of alert faculties.
Once I saw a boy dying. He was a dark-haired, brown-eyed lad of
eighteen. He had had a leg shattered the day before, and he had lain
for hours unattended on the battlefield. The leg had been amputated,
and he was dying of loss of blood.
He lay alone, in a small room of what had once been a girls' school.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374