It is a picture of
vivid horror. But the final impression left on me by caring for many
hundred wounded men is that of their patience and cheeriness. I think
they would resent having a sordid pen picture made of their suffering
and letting it go at that. After all, it is their wound: they suffered
it for a purpose, and they conquer their bodily pain by will power and
the Gallic touch of humor. Suffering borne nobly merits something more
than an emphasis on the blood and the moan. To speak of these wounded
men as of a heap of futile misery is like missing the worthiness of
motherhood in the details of obstetrics.
It was thought we moderns had gone soft, but it seems we were storing up
reserves of stoic strength and courage. This war has drawn on them more
heavily than any former test, and they have met all its demands.
Sometimes, being tired, I would drop my corner of the stretcher, a few
inches suddenly. This would draw a quick intake of the breath from the
hurt man and an "aahh"--but not once a word of blame. I should want to
curse the careless hand that wrenched my wound, but these soldiers of
France and Belgium whom I carried had passed beyond littleness.
Once we had a French Zouave officer on the stretcher. He was wounded in
the right arm and the stomach. Every careen of the ambulance over cobble
and into shell-hole was a thrust into his hurt.
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