THE RED LANTERN AT THE FIRST AID STATION, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
There were casualties to-day. I am waiting for Thiébaut, my sergeant, and a squad of men, with whom I am going into the cantonment to-night at Nieuport.
We are to meet at the First Aid Station and a few men are stretched out on litters moaning. There is one particularly, who is suffering terribly: he has been shot through the stomach and the surgeon says in a hushed voice he will die on the way to the rear. Poor chap, his breathing is labored. They are waiting for an English ambulance to carry them, which will arrive soon, I hope——
The odor of ether and dressings, mingled with the smell of blood, sickens me——
I go outside from time to time, to see if my men have not come up. A company of Fusiliers are being relieved and they file past me. One hears the hurried shuffling of feet. Then an artillery duel starts up. It is very dark in the street. The lantern hanging there casts sinister shadows on the men. Intermittently the sky is brightened up by enemy star-shell. Their lines are less than a mile away.
A soldier passing says to his friend:
"Look, mon vieux, at the red lantern—one of Nieuport's brothels!"
THE LOCK-KEEPER'S HOUSE, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
Two of my men, Poulet and Chandonnay, were living in the cellar of the lock-keeper's home where they were guarding some material I had sent up. Also, there was a picket of Territorials.