Night falls. The cold increases. It is that hour when, the battle
ended, the wounded who have not yet been brought in, cry aloud in
their suffering and distress. And those calls, those appealings, those
moanings, awaken anguish in all those compelled to listen to them; an
anguish the crueler for the fighters who are chained to their posts
by stern duty yet who long to rush out to their gasping comrades, to
dress their wounds, to speak words of comfort to them, and to carry
them to safety where fires burn brightly and warm. Yet we must not do
so; we are chained to the spot, our hearts wrung, our nerves quivering,
shivering at the sound of soul-stricken cries brought to us unceasingly
by the night.
"A drink!..."
"Are you going to leave me to die here?..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."
"Drink!..."
"Ah!..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."