He lay unmurmuring for all the
tossing of the road over the long miles of the ride. We lifted him from
the stretcher, which he had wet with his blood, into the white cot in
"Hall 15" of Zuydcoote Hospital. The wound and the journey had gone
deeply into his vitality. As he touched the bed, his control ebbed, and
he became violently sick at the stomach. I stooped to carry back the
empty stretcher. He saw I was going away, and said, "Thank you." I knew
I should not see him again, not even if I came early next day.
There is one unfading impression made on me by those wounded. If I call
it good nature, I have given only one element in it. It is more than
that: it is a dash of fun. They smile, they wink, they accept a light
for their cigarette. It is not stoicism at all. Stoicism is a grim
holding on, the jaws clenched, the spirit dark, but enduring. This is a
thing of wings. They will know I am not making light of their pain in
writing these words. I am only saying that they make light of it. The
judgment of men who are soon to die is like the judgment of little
children. It does not tolerate foolish words. Of all the ways of showing
you care that they suffer there is nothing half so good as the gift of
tobacco. As long as I had any money to spend, I spent it on packages of
cigarettes.
[Illustration: SAILORS LIFTING A WOUNDED COMRADE INTO THE
MOTOR-AMBULANCE.
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