“Not identified! Now we’re in for it. You’ll hear again of this from me. It simply won’t do. To begin with, come along with me at once!”
We go from hut to hut, M. Poisson asking at each door:
“Did any of you send us a body without identification papers?”
You can well imagine that when asked in this way all M. Poisson’s men took cover immediately. Some laughed secretly: others were alarmed. All made the same reply:
“A dead body without identification papers! Certainly not, Doctor; we never brought it.”
M. Poisson began to breathe heavily.
He spat everywhere; he was so angry that his voice was no longer human—it was hoarse, ragged and torn. In spite of his insufferable temper, I actually felt pity for the old man.
Back he goes to the office, I following close at his heels. Dashing to his papers and documents, he shuffles them about like a spaniel in the mud. Then, shouting angrily, he says:
“Here you are!—1236 came in; 561 have gone out. Do you understand? Six remain at present. That’s it: one is missing, and it must be the one. And nobody knows who he is! We are in a mess! We are in a mess!”
I confess that M. Poisson’s assurance made a great impression on me. Especially was I surprised at the accuracy of his figures. It is wonderful, sir, to note the efficiency of military organisation. We learn, for instance, that twenty-three stretchers out of a hundred have been lost—not one more, not one less; or 1000 wounded were brought in; 50 died; therefore 950 are still alive. To maintain this mathematical order, it is therefore clearly well worth while taking the trouble to make a list of everything that comes in and goes out. Listening to M. Poisson making his calculation, I saw, too clearly, how my poor unfortunate corpse was one too many.