As I was carrying a bucket of soup across a gang-plank, an officer met me. He came bounding forward, with his sword clanging by his side.
“Madam,” he said, “what are you doing?”
I was startled nearly out of my wits, but I managed to say,—
“I am carrying soup to the wounded.”
“Why, you ought not to do that. See here, soldier, I detail you to carry soup for this woman.”
The soldier sprang forward and took the bucket of soup from my hand, and the officer went on. I never knew who he was. If this falls under his eyes, I want to thank him for his thoughtfulness. On and on, all day, I went with my assistant, while the two lady helpers worked as fast as they possibly could, to get the food ready.
The distribution of food was very rapid. Men with broken legs and arms and gashed faces would hold out their tin cups or canteens to be filled. The tin cups were easily filled, but the canteens took longer. When they saw us coming, they would pound on the floor or on the side of the boat, calling piteously,—
“Don’t pass me by. I am here, lady; please give me some soup.”
“Please, lady, pour some water on my arm, it is so dry and hot and the wound hurts so.”
Without a moment’s relaxation the day passed in this kind of work.