We had to carry him all
the way from the Nieuport cellar to Zuydcoote Hospital, ten miles. The
driver was one more of the American young men who have gone over into
France to pay back a little of what we owe her. I want to give his name,
Robert Cardell Toms, because it is good for us to know that we have
brave and tender gentlemen. On this long haul, as always, he drove with
extreme care, changing his speed without the staccato jerk, avoiding
bumps and holes of the trying road. When we reached the hospital, he
ran ahead into the ward to prepare the bed. The officer beckoned me to
him. He spoke with some difficulty, as the effort caught him in the
wound of his stomach.
"Please be good enough," he said, "to give my thanks to the chauffeur.
He has driven me down with much consideration. He cares for wounded
men."
Where other races are grateful and inarticulate, the French are able to
put into speech the last fine touch of feeling.
My friend kept a supply of cigarettes for his ambulance cases, and as
soon as the hour-long drive began we dealt them out to the bandaged men.
How often we have started with a groaning man for the ride to Zuydcoote,
and how well the trip went, when we had lighted his cigarette for him.
It brought back a little of the conversation and the merriment which it
had called out in better days. It is such a relief to be wounded.
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