The surgeon approached the table. The man had indeed lost consciousness; and I saw it was the very one who swore he would not take the anæsthetic. The poor man had not dared even to make a protest. Caught, as it were, in the cogs of the wheel, he was at once overpowered, and he delivered himself up to the hungry machine, like pig-iron devoured by the rolling-mills. And then, too, he must have known it was for his good, because this is all the good that is left to us in these days.
“Sergeant,” some one remarked, “you are not allowed to remain in the operating theatre without a cap.”
On going out, I looked once again at the surgeon. He hung over his work with an assiduity in which, despite his overalls, his mask and his gloves, a feeling of tenderness was plainly marked.
I thought with conviction: “No! No! He, at least, has no illusions!”
And I found myself once more in the waiting-room, that smelt of blood, like a wild beast’s lair.
A dim light came from a veiled lamp. Some wounded were moaning; others chatted in low voices.
“Who said tank?” said one of them. “Why, I was wounded in a tank.”
There was silence, brief and respectful. The man, who was buried in bandages, added:
“Our petrol-tank burst: my legs are broken and I am burnt in the face. Oh! I know all about tanks!”
He said that with a queer emphasis in which I recognised the age-long torment of humanity—pride.