Then the stretcher
bearers found him and lifted him to the car, and carried him to the
field hospital. There they had to operate swiftly, for infection was
spreading. So he was no longer a whole man, but he was still of good
spirit, for he had done his bit for France. Then they bore him to a base
hospital, where he had white sheets and a wholesome nurse. He lay there
weak and content. Every one was good to him. But there came a day when
they told him he must leave to make room for the fresher cases of need.
So he was turned loose into a world that had no further use for him. A
cripple, he couldn't fight and he couldn't work, for his job needed two
arms, and he had given one, up yonder on the Marne. He drifted from shop
to shop in Paris. But he didn't know a trade. Life was through with him,
so one day, he shot himself.
That, we learn from authoritative sources, is the story of more than one
broken soldier of Joffre's army.
To be shot clean dead is an easier fate than to be turned loose into
life, a cripple, who must beg his way about. Shall these men who have
defended France be left to rot? All they ask is to be allowed to work.
It is gallant and stirring to fight, and when wounded the soldier is
tenderly cared for. But when he comes out, broken, he faces the
bitterest thing in war. After the hospital--what? Too bad, he's
hurt--but there is no room in the trades for any but a trained man.
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