The German lay on a stretcher in the straw of the first
dressing-station. His legs had been torn by shot. He was in
pain. He looked into the faces of the men about him, the
French doctors and dressers, the Belgian infantry. The
lantern light was white and yellow on their faces. He drew
out from the inner pocket of his mouse-colored coat a packet
of letters, and from the packet the picture of a stout
woman, who, like himself, was of middle-age. He handed it to
the French doctor. "Meine Frau," he said.
At the outer rim of the group, a Belgian drew a knife, ran
it lightly across his own throat, and pointed mockingly to
the German on the stretcher.