They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung. “I won’t go to the Dying Room.”
“But we are going to the bandaging ward.”
“Then what do you want my tunic for?” He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: “Stopping here!”
They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. “I will come back again! I will come back again!” he cries.
The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: “Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through.”
★★
I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon’s secretary says. Another fellow’s have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting.
Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. “We’ll soon put that right,” he tells them, “we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister.”
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