"Give it up! All evacuated!"
Our driver needed no more—and so we pushed on into the town, while I pantomimed to those behind that I had a wounded man in my arms.
In front of the city hall stood a noisy gathering, and in reply to our questions, a middle-aged man jumped on to the step.
"Go ahead—I'll guide you. All the seven hospitals in Melun were transferred to Orleans this morning. The mixed hospital is all that is left."
After what seemed an interminable time we finally pulled up a long hill and after much parleying I succeeded in turning over my patient to the medical authorities.
Through the half open door of the little stuffy office where I was conducted I could see a white-aproned doctor and a nurse properly bandaging my boy. When my compagnons de route had departed, I walked out into the ward and straight up to the bedside.
"Is there any hope?"
"Not one chance in a million! Would to heaven we had the right to spare them such suffering! Morphine is no longer helpful in his case!"
It was a shock to hear this. The lad, who a couple of hours before was unknown to me, suddenly became very dear. I turned about to hide my emotion, but was startled out of it by the double line of white beds on which were writhing men and boys in the most awful agony, yet not a sound broke from their lips. In the middle of the room a second doctor, a slight man with a pointed beard, stood washing his hands and then began drawing on a pair of long rubber gloves. He crossed over to a basin and, after sterilizing his instruments, looked around for an aid.
"Can I do anything for you, doctor?"