Many
buildings in the main streets had been reduced to ruins, and nearly
all the windows in the town had been smashed."
There is, or was, a converted Channel steamer at Dunkirk that is now a
hospital. Men in all stages of mutilation are there. The salt winds of
the Channel blow in through the open ports. The boat rises and falls
to the swell of the sea. The deck cabins are occupied by wounded
officers, and below, in the long saloon, are rows of cots.
I went there on a bright day in February. There was a young officer on
the deck. He had lost a leg at the hip, and he was standing supported
by a crutch and looking out to sea. He did not even turn his head when
we approached.
General M----, the head of the Belgian Army medical service, who had
escorted me, touched him on the arm, and he looked round without
interest.
"For conspicuous bravery!" said the General, and showed me the medal
he wore on his breast.
However, the young officer's face did not lighten, and very soon he
turned again to the sea. The time will come, of course, when the
tragedy of his mutilation will be less fresh and poignant, when the
Order of Leopold on his breast will help to compensate for many
things; but that sunny morning, on the deck of the hospital ship, it
held small comfort for him.
We went below.
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