crowd of Red Cross nurses. Kropp is stowed in below. I am lifted up and put into the bed above him.
“Good God!” I exclaim suddenly.
“What is it?” asks the sister.
I cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy.
“Can’t you get in by yourself?” asks the sister gently.
“Why yes,” I say in a sweat, “but take off the bed cover first.”
“What for?”
I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?—“It will get———” I hesitate.
“A little bit dirty?” she suggests helpfully. “That doesn’t matter, we will wash it again afterwards.”
“No, no, not that———” I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement.
“When you have been lying out there in the trenches, surely we can wash a sheet,” she goes on.
I look at her, she is young and crisp, spotless and neat, like everything here; a man cannot realize that it isn’t for officers only, and feels himself strange and in some way even alarmed.
All the same, the woman is a tormentor, she is
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