The car was
slung with double layers of stretcher bunks. Some men were freshly
wounded, others were convalescent. A few lay in a stupor. She provided
ten or a dozen soldiers with their pleasure, and they lighted up and
were well under way. She had so many patients that day that she was not
watching the individual man in her general distribution. She came half
way down the car, and held out her store to a soldier without looking at
him. He glanced up and grinned. The men in the bunks around him laughed
heartily. Then she looked down at him. He was flapping the two stumps of
his arms and was smiling. His hands had been blown off. She put the
cigarette in his mouth and lit it for him. Only his hands were gone.
Comradeship was left for him, and here was the lighted cigarette
expressing that comradeship.
WAS IT REAL?
The man was an old-time friend. In the days of our youth, we had often
worked together. He was small and nervous, with a quick eye. He always
wore me down after a few hours, because he was restless and untiring. He
was named Romeyn Rossiter--one of those well-born names. We had met in
times before the advent of the telescopic lens, and he used a box
camera, tuned to a fiftieth of a second. Together we snapped polo
ponies, coming at full tilt after the ball, riding each other off, while
he would stand between the goal-posts, as they zigzagged down on him.
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