And I’ve fought from the start and I’ve suffered so.
’Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know.”
“Forget it,” says I; then I drove awhile,
And I passed him a cheery word or two;
But he didn’t answer for many a mile,
So just as the hospital hove in view,
Says I: “Is there nothing that I can do?”
Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;
And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;
“Thank you–you’re far too kind,” says he:
“I’m awfully comfy–stay… let’s see:
I fancy my blanket's come unrolled–
My feet, please wrap ’em–they’re cold… they’re cold.”
There is a city that glitters on the plain. Afar off we can see its tall cathedral spire, and there we often take our wounded from the little village hospitals to the rail-head. Tragic little buildings, these emergency hospitals–town-halls, churches, schools; their cots are never empty, their surgeons never still.
So every day w^e get our list of cases and off we go, a long line of cars swishing through the mud. Then one by one we branch off to our village hospital, puzzling out the road on our maps. Arrived there, we load up quickly.
The wounded make no moan. They lie, limp, heavily bandaged, with bare legs and arms protruding from their blankets. They do not know where they are going; they do not care. Like live stock, they are labeled and numbered. An orderly brings along their battle-scarred equip-
