Every half mile, drive down into the ditch mud, to get out of the way of
some ammunition wagons going to the front. The wheel gets stuck. Put on
power, in jumps, to bump the car out. Every jerk tears at your open
sore, as if the wheel had got stuck in your arm and was being pulled
out. Two hours to do the seven miles. Get to the field hospital. No time
for you. Lie on your stretcher in the court, where the flies swarm on
you. Always flies. Flies on the blood of the wounded, glued to the
bandage. Flies on the face of the dead."
So he had once spoken and left them wondering. But that whirling burst
of words was long before, in those earlier days of his work. Nothing
like that had happened in weeks. No such vivid pictures lighted him now.
The man slept on.
There was a scratching at the window, then a steady tapping, then a
resounding fist on the casement. Gradually, the sleeping man came up
through the deep waters of unconsciousness. His eyes were heavy. He sat
a moment, brooding, then turned toward the insistent noise.
"Monsieur Watts!" said a voice.
"Yes," answered the man. He stretched himself, and raised the sash. A
brisk little French Marin was at the window.
"The doctors are at luncheon. They are waiting for you," the soldier
said in rapid Breton French; "today you are their guest."
"Of course," replied the man, "I had forgotten. I will come at once.
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