Since 3.15 this morning a lot of men have died. Thank God one cannot go on realizing death.
But one need not think of it. This is a ward; here are lucky ones. Even when I look at Rees, even when I look at the grocer, even when I look at the T.B. ward, I know that anything, anything is better than death. But I have known a man here and there who did not think so—and these men, close on death it is true, were like strangers in the ward.
For one can be close on death and remain familiar, friendly, comprehensible.
I used to think, "It is awful to die." But who knows what compliance the years will bring? What is awful is to die young.
A new V.A.D. came into the ward yesterday—a girl straight from home, who has never been in a hospital before.
Rees told me, "She turned her head away when she saw me arm."
"I did once, Rees."
He looked down at the almost unrecognizable twelve inches which we call "Rees's wound," and considered how this red inch had paled and the lips of that incision were drawing together. "'Tisn' no more me arm," he said at length, "than...." he paused for a simile. "'Tisn' me arm, it's me wound," he finally explained.
His arm is stretched out at right angles from his bed in an iron cradle, and has been for six months.
"Last night," he said, "I felt me arm layin' down by me side, an' I felt the fingers an' tried to scratch me knee. It's a feeling that's bin comin' on for some time, but last night it seemed real."