Somber as this picture of life is, its background was nothing less than
terrifyingly lurid.
For some minutes I had stood before a barn in Galicia. I was expected to
go into that barn, but I did not like the idea. Some fourscore of
cholera patients lay on the straw-littered earthen floor. Every hour or
so one of them would die. Disease in their case had progressed so far
that all hope had been abandoned. If by any chance one of the sick
possessed that unusual degree of bodily and nerve vigor that would
defeat the ravages of the germ, he would recover as well in the barn as
in a hospital.
The brave man wishes to die alone. Those in the barn were brave men, and
I did not wish to press my company upon them in the supreme hour. Still,
there was the possibility that some might question my courage if I did
not go into the barn. Cholera is highly contagious. But when with an
army one is expected to do as the army does. If reckless exposure be a
part of that, there is no help.
I stepped into the gloom of the structure. There was snow on the ground
outside. It took a minute or two before my eyes could discern things.
Some light fell into the interior from the half-open door and a little
square opening in the wall in the rear.
Two lines of sick men lay on the ground--heads toward the wall, feet in
the aisle that was thus formed. Some of the cholera-stricken writhed in
agony as the germ destroyed their vitals. Others lay exhausted from a
spasm of excruciating agony. Some were in the coma preceding death. Two
were delirious.
There was an army chaplain in the barn. He thought it his duty to be of
as much comfort to the men as possible. His intentions were kind enough,
and yet he would have done the patients a favor by leaving them to
themselves.
As I reached the corner where the chaplain stood, one of the sick
soldiers struggled into an upright position. Then he knelt, while the
chaplain began to say some prayer. The poor wretch had much difficulty
keeping upright. When the chaplain had said "Amen" he fell across the
body of the sick man next to him.
The exertion and the mental excitement had done the man no good. Soon he
was in a paroxysm of agony. The chaplain was meanwhile preparing another
for the great journey.
The dead had been laid under one of the eaves. A warm wind had sprung up
and the sun was shining. The snow on the roof began to melt. The
dripping water laved the faces of the dead. Out in the field several
men were digging a company grave.
So much has been written on the hardships endured by the wounded at the
front that I will pass by this painful subject. What tortures these
unfortunates suffered is aptly epitomized by an experience I had in the
hospital of the American Red Cross in Budapest.
The man in charge of the hospital, Dr. Charles MacDonald, of the United
States Army, had invited me to see his institution. I had come to a
small room in which operations were undertaken when urgency made this
necessary. During the day a large convoy of very bad cases had reached
Budapest. Many of them were a combination of wounds and frostbite.
In the middle of the room stood an operation-table. On it lay a patient
who was just recovering consciousness. I saw the merciful stupor of
anesthesia leave the man's mind and wondered how he would take it. For
on the floor, near the foot end of the operation-table, stood an
enameled wash-basin, filled with blood and water. From the red fluid
protruded two feet. They were black and swollen--frostbite. One of them
had been cut off a little above the ankle, and the other immediately
below the calf of the leg.
The amputation itself was a success, said the nurse. But there was
little hope for the patient. He had another wound in the back. That
wound itself was not serious, but it had been the cause of the man's
condition, by depriving him temporarily of the power of locomotion.
When he was shot, the man had fallen into some reeds. He was unconscious
for a time, and when he recovered his senses he found that he could no
longer move his legs.
He was lying in a No Man's Land between the Austro-Hungarian and Russian
lines. For two days his feeble cries were unheard. Finally, some
ambulance-men came across him. By that time his feet had been frozen.
The wound in his back was given some attention at a first-aid station
behind the line. The surgeons decided that the amputation of the feet
could wait until Budapest was reached. Meanwhile the poison of gangrene
was gaining admission to the blood.
The man's face was yellow. His whole body was yellow and emaciated. The
lips no longer served to cover the teeth.
He was breathing pantingly--in short, quick gasps.
Slowly his mind shook off the fetters of the ether. A long breath--a
faint sigh. The eyes opened.
They were Slav eyes of blue-gray. I saw in them the appeal of the
helpless child, the protest of a being tortured, the prayer for relief
of a despairing soul.
The man's lips moved. He wanted to say something. I bent over to catch
the sibilant tones.
I had not caught them, and indicated that by a shake of the head. The
man repeated. He spoke in Polish, a language I do not know. To assure
the man that I would find means of understanding him, I patted his
cheek, and then called an orderly.
"He says that he would like you to fetch his wife and his children,"
said the orderly-interpreter, as he righted himself. "He says he is
going to die soon, and wants to see them. He says that you will have to
hurry up. He says that he will say a good word to the Lord for you if
you will do him this favor."
"Ask him where they live," I said to the orderly. If it were at all
possible I would do the man this kindness.
It was some village near Cracow. That was a long way off. If the man
lived for two days his wish could be met.
"Tell the man that I will telegraph his wife to come as quickly as
possible, but that she can't be here for a day or so," I instructed the
interpreter.
A shadow of disappointment swept over the patient's face.
"Ask him if he knows where he is," I said.
The man did not know. I told the orderly to make it clear to him that he
was in Budapest, and that his home in Galicia was far away. He was to be
patient. I would bring his wife and children to him, if it could be done
at all. Did the wife have the money to pay the railroad fare?
The patient was not sure. I read in his eyes that he feared the woman
would not have the money. I eased his mind by telling him that I would
pay the fares.
Deeper gratitude never spoke from any face. The poor fellow tried to
lift his hands, but could not. To assure him that his wish would be
granted I once more patted his cheeks and forehead and then left the
room, followed by the orderly and the wash-basin.
"There is no use telegraphing," said Doctor MacDonald. "He won't live
longer than another hour, at the most."
Ten minutes later the man was dead. The operation-table was being
wheeled down the corridor by the orderly. I had just stepped out of a
ward.
The orderly stopped.
"You won't have to bring the woman here," he said, as he lifted the end
of the sheet that covered the face.
As reward for my readiness to help the poor man, I have still in my mind
the expression of relief that lay on the dead face. He had passed off in
gladsome anticipation of the meeting there was to be.