“One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the German power
of hatred. It is past measuring. An example occurred at Dixmude. When
we had been there three days we were driven out. I took my car filled
with the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after we had
crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot had torn the bridge to
pieces. Three weeks later to our hospital was brought a wounded German.
“‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We nearly got you at the bridge at Dixmude.’
“‘I remember,’ I said.
“That man’s eyes used to follow me in a strange way. Build no
beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing, or being
swallowed up in his gratitude. There was no such thought in his mind.
The eyes said: ‘I wish I had killed you. But since I didn’t I wish I
might have another chance.’
“This, after I had driven away a group of zouaves who had taken
everything from him, including his iron cross, and who were debating
whether to toss him into the canal then or that night.
“Shells have a disturbing way about them, more disturbing to your plans
than your equanimity. Shells prevented my having a nice comfortable
illness. In southern Russia one can get little to eat. Coarse black
bread is the chief food. It causes various disorders. I, afflicted
with one of them, arranged a table in the corner of my tent, placed
remedies on the table, undressed, and turned in, intending to have
a cozy illness of a few days. But as I lay came an angry buzzing. A
shell hissed through, carrying away a corner of my tent. That ended my
illness. I had no more time to think of it.
“The greatest peril I encountered was not from shells. One becomes
used to them. One of the greatest dangers I faced was on a dark night
drive along a precipice in the Caucasus. It was while the plan to
bring troops through Persia to Russia was expected to be successful. I
went ahead with some ambulances. It was necessary to take two Russian
officers across the mountain. I offered my services. The road was
an oddly twisting one. On one side was a high wall, on the other a
precipice whose depth no one calculated. But as I allowed myself to
look into it at twilight I could see no bottom to it. We started on the
all-night drive at dusk. The precipice remained with us, a foot away,
most of the distance. Had my car skidded twelve inches the story would
have been different.
“Then, too, I wandered once within the Turkish lines, mistaking them
for our own. But amid a courteous silence I was allowed to discover my
mistake and escape without harm.