EVACUATION—THE SANITARY TRAIN—THE HOSPITAL
When I regained consciousness I was in the dug-out of an officer of the
machine-gun section. He gave me some brandy, and I revived. Almost
immediately afterward came the Boche counter-attack. It was met by the
fire from their own machine guns, and was quickly beaten back. With my
left hand I unloaded the six bullets of my revolver into the dark
shadows advancing toward us. This much I could do for my soldiers.
But when the danger was over, my nerve suddenly left me, and I was
frightened, as frightened as a child in the dark. I was afraid to go
alone to the dressing-station, and waited to walk along with the
stretcher-bearers. We had to go a long distance. I realized that we had
covered a good deal of ground in the morning, and I was filled with
hope. Why should not our men do the same thing the next day, and then
the next, until we could raise our heads and say: “Ours the victory!”
When the surgeons had dressed my wound, I was placed on a stretcher and
lifted into an ambulance. Then began the journey to the rear.
A day and a half later, after a chaotic ride through the darkness, I
reached the hospital of the beautiful little town of Arras, where the
wounded are collected from the various dressing-stations. I was taken
into a vast ward and undressed by two orderlies, who cut away my coat
and jacket and put me to bed between clean sheets. In spite of a battery
that was booming right beside the hospital, and in spite of the pain in
my arm, I went to sleep, utterly worn out.
The next morning I was helped into my clothes and put almost immediately
into an automobile to be taken toward the rear, ever farther and farther
from the din of battle, which was still going on. We met a great number
of convoys of troops on their way to reinforce the front, infantry
transported in heavy trucks, as we had been ten days before, artillery
drawn by caterpillar tractors, and masses of cavalry waiting for the
forward dash. Truly, everything seemed ready for pushing far ahead. And
I was enraged at being wounded at such a moment, for the thought of our
advance was magnificent and inspiring.
The motor came to a stop in a little village of this luxuriant region of
Artois. The hospital where we were cared for momentarily was in the
schoolhouse. I was given a hypodermic of serum to prevent tetanus. The
schoolmistress, who still kept a single room for her classes, learning
that I belonged to the University, asked me to go home to lunch with
her. She was exquisitely kind and thoughtful, waiting on me, preparing
my food and helping me to eat. Then I lay down on her bed. I was at the
end of my strength.
Toward evening I was again put into an automobile, and again came a
confused ride over torn-up roads. My arm was very painful. I felt my
hand swelling and growing heavy and feverish. It was late when we
reached the evacuation hospital, where I once more went to bed. I found
there one of my companions in misery, an adjutant wounded in the thigh.
The next morning very early we were awakened by violent detonations. It
was German aeroplanes throwing bombs on the station and the hospital.
One of them fell very near the building where we poor wretches were
lying. Could the barbarians attack even us?
In that immense hospital ward was every sort of horrible wound. No part
of the body had been spared. But what impressed me most was an officer
in the bed next to mine, totally disfigured by a shell—a repulsive
monster, ignoble, with neither nose nor lips. I saw him plainly when
they were dressing his wound. And it hurt me.
At noon I got into an automobile again, this time to go only as far as
the station, where the sanitary train was waiting for us. There were two
kinds of coaches, one with comfortable swinging stretchers for wounded
who were not able to sit up, and for the rest of us ordinary first and
second-class coaches. I was in a first-class compartment with a
lieutenant who was ill, a second lieutenant wounded in the hand, and a
colonel who had a quantity of little shell splinters in his leg. I
happened to be the worst off of any of them, and it was touching the way
they all tried to do some little thing to make me comfortable. The
colonel helped me get settled, cut my meat, almost fed me. He was like a
father, and it was very affecting to see this old colonel, all covered
with medals, waiting upon a little lieutenant who was scarcely out of
his teens.
At the big stations, Amiens particularly, they took off the wounded who
were suffering most. But in spite of the pain and fever in my arm, I
wanted to stay on the train. I kept thinking it was going to take me to
the South, to the Riviera, where my family was at that moment.
At nightfall we arrived just outside of Paris, and there the train
waited until morning. It was the same station where we had stopped
nearly twenty days before, on returning from the Meuse. In the morning
the faithful ladies of the Red Cross came with cheerful smiles to bring
us cups of hot coffee. Then the train steamed slowly out. We met some
Boche prisoners who were also being evacuated. Be it said to the honor
of the French wounded, no cry against the barbarians went up from our
train; France knows the respect that is due a vanquished enemy.
After that the train sauntered along all day in the direction of the
Loire. We stopped at many stations in peaceful, shaded countrysides, and
at each of these havens a few of the wounded got out. At every station
young girls came to bring us flowers, fresh eggs, illustrated papers,
and likewise their smiles, admiring, a little tender too, and grateful.
I was especially touched by the flowers. They brought them by armfuls
and loaded us down. We suddenly began to have a glimmering of our lofty
estate as wounded. The attentions of those exquisite women made us
almost imagine we had done something worth while. But this did not
lessen the deep gratitude with which we accepted their gifts.
The debt of gratitude that I vowed from that moment to the women of
France has been growing daily greater since I have been in this
hospital. I reached here late at night. At the station the wounded were
divided among the different hospitals of the town and I was assigned to
the hospital of _l’Union des Femmes de France_, a private institution,
housed in the buildings of the Girls’ Normal School. At the entrance,
white figures stood out against the dim light. When I went in, I was met
by smiling faces, and two of the ladies accompanied me to my room. There
they took off my clothes and gave me my first bath in many days, doing
all this simply, gently, tenderly, laughing at me a little if I was
embarrassed, as can well be imagined. Could anything be more wonderful
than to see the devotion with which these delicately reared women
perform all kinds of unpleasant and unwonted tasks? And always with the
same cheerfulness, the same gentleness, the same patience, for wounded
soldiers are far from being agreeable at times. If there is any virtue
in the soldiers of France, a thousand times more worth are its women,
whose very presence and smile brings healing. I fell under the charm of
it at once, and my first night was a good one. But after that, fever
came on. The violent shocks I had been through brought on cerebral
congestion, and I knew nothing further for some days. When I came to
myself, I found my mother at my bedside. She had been with me for a
week, though I had not known her.
After that my arm was treated to more purpose. It was necessary to
operate several times. As soon as I was able to be out, I was loaded
with invitations. All my nurses asked me to their homes, likewise the
doctor, whom I had completely won over, it seems, by the very learned
character of my divagations when I was off my head. I have come back to
a life of perpetual pampering, sweet, active, calm, and unspeakably
happy.
My arm is in a plaster cast. I am writing with my left hand. My room
opens out on a large garden, full of flowers and fragrance. I have got
back to my books again, and I am growing stronger. To be alive is
infinitely good.
_June 25_. This morning I was decorated with the _Croix de Guerre_. For
several days back my nurses have been going around with an air of
mystery. They looked at me and whispered, and for all answer to my
questions, did nothing but smile. They had become perfectly inscrutable.
Even the doctor, who plied me with his usual volley of jokes, refused to
enlighten me. Not until his visit of this morning did he deign to inform
me that the general in charge of this section was going to take the
trouble to bring me something.
In the courtyard of the hospital, with its chestnut trees in blossom,
and its decorations of flags, were assembled all the wounded who were
able to be about, some seated, others lying in reclining-chairs. The
ladies in charge of the hospital and all the nurses in their fresh white
uniforms were laughing and talking. I was talking to a comrade and
feeling not a little embarrassed.
Finally the General arrived, together with several staff officers. The
doctor presented the hospital staff to him and then he presented me. By
way of a right arm, I had a big bundle of plaster and bandages which
prevented me from being properly clad in my regimentals. The General
unfolded a large paper and read in the midst of complete silence:—
“Second Lieutenant R. N., the Army cites you in the Order of the Day for
the following reasons:—
“Lieutenant N., under a very deadly fire, led forward his section to the
charge upon the German positions. With great gallantry, he pushed on
with his men to a point in advance of the third German line, where he
was wounded.”
And the General came toward me as I stood there trembling a little, and
pinned to my jacket the _Croix de Guerre_. Then he took my left hand and
pressed it silently. I felt that everybody was looking at me. I was very
much overcome. I must have looked foolish.
The doctor, a sort of demi-god whom we all adore, began to say
something. It was about me, doubtless, but I had not the least idea
what. I longed for the whole thing to be over. He came up to me and
embraced me.
After that we went to the house of the directress and drank champagne.
It all seemed endless, and my one wish was to be alone, quite alone, so
as to give myself up to the immense, prodigious joy that was mine, the
joy that came as a reward for doing my duty. How can I endure this
waiting to get well? I must get back to the front. I will prove to my
country that not in vain does she reward her children.
THE END
=The Riverside Press=
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
28 the Germans call the Germans call
“_Trommelfaren_,” or “drumfire.” “_Trommelfeuer_,” or “drumfire.”
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.
● HTML alt text was used for images that didn’t have captions.