We, whose work commences only after the battle, have learned to know
things that baffle description. Waiting all day long in more or less
sheltered positions is sad enough: with the noise of rifle fire and the
roaring of the guns we cannot but constantly think of the poor fellows
who are being hit. The din of the battle grows less, the night draws
on, the moment has now come for us to do our task. With acetylene lamps
to light us, we cross the battlefield in all directions and pick up
the wounded. As to the dead, alas! how numerous they are! We find them
petrified in their last attitude in their last _élan_. And the crying
and moaning of the wounded scattered in the cornfields and among the
damp meadows! I know of nothing more poignant than that. The bullets
nearly always go right through; wounds in the chest or in the abdomen
are almost certainly mortal. Fortunately, such wounds are comparatively
few in number. German shells are more noisy than efficient, and their
splinters generally only cause small wounds. I must add that the
bullets of our rifles are as deadly as those of the Germans, while our
shells are far more dangerous than theirs. The poor devils who are hit
by them are to be pitied. A good many Germans allow themselves to be
made prisoners; they know we will treat them humanely: _A Member of the
Ambulance Corps_.