They had only a
candle or two. But it was impossible to stop, for the wards were full
of injured women and children.
I walked through some of the wards. It was the first time I had seen
together so many of the innocent victims of this war--children blind
and forever cut off from the light of day, little girls with arms
gone, women who will never walk again.
It was twilight. Here and there a candle gleamed, for any bright
illumination was considered unwise.
What must they think as they lie there during the long dark hours
between twilight and the late winter morning? Like the sentry, many of
them must wonder if it is worth while. These are people, most of them,
who have lived by their labour. What will they do when the war is
over, or when, having made such recovery as they may, the hospital
opens its doors and must perforce turn them out on the very threshold
of war?
And yet they cling to life. I met a man who crossed the Channel--I
believe it was from Flushing--with the first lot of hopelessly wounded
English prisoners who had been sent home to England from Germany in
exchange for as many wrecked and battered Germans on their way back to
the Fatherland.
One young boy was all eagerness. His home was on the cliff above the
harbour which was their destination. He alternately wept and cheered.
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