Now and then one is sleeping.
"He has slept since he came in," the nurse will say; "utter
exhaustion."
Often they die. If there is a screen, the death takes place decently
and in order, away from the eyes of the ward. But when there is no
screen, it makes little difference. What is one death to men who have
seen so many?
Once men thought in terms of a day's work, a night's sleep, of labour
and play and love. But all over Europe to-day, in hospital and out,
men are learning to think in terms of life and death. What will be the
result? A general brutalising? The loss of much that is fine? Perhaps.
There are some who think that it will scourge men's souls clean of
pettiness, teach them proportion, give them a larger outlook. But is
it petty to labour and love? Is the duty of the nation greater than
the duty of the home? Is the nation greater than the individual? Is
the whole greater than the sum of its parts?
Ward after ward. Rows of quiet men. The occasional thump of a
convalescent's crutch. The swish of a nurse's starched dress. The
strangled grunt of a man as the dressing is removed from his wound.
The hiss of coal in the fireplace at the end of the ward. Perhaps a
priest beside a bed, or a nun. Over all, the heavy odour of drugs and
disinfectants. Brisk nurses go about, cheery surgeons, but there is no
real cheer.
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