“Ought to be done, you know—our honour....”
And they went on gravely chatting and gulped down cupfuls of a hot brew which was poured from a metal jug. From another angle in the tent the scene was very different. The men were lying down: they had grave wounds. Placed side by side on the uneven ground, they made a mosaic of pain stained with mud and blood, the colours of war; reeking with sweat and corruption, the smells of war; noisy with cries, moans and hiccups which are the sounds and music of war.
I shivered at the sight. I had known the bristling horror of the massacre and the charge. I was to learn another horror, that of the tableau—the accumulation of prostrate victims, the spectacle of the vast hall swarming with human larvæ, in heaps, on the floor.
I had finished my work with the stretcher and hastened to make my round of the wounded. I was so deeply moved that I was rather hindered in my work. Some of the men were vomiting, suffering unutterable agony, and their brows streaming with perspiration. Others were very quiet and could be more or less rational: they seemed to be following the internal progress of their illness. I was completely upset by one of them. He was a fair-haired sergeant with a slight moustache. His face was buried in his hands and he was sobbing with despair and what seemed like shame. I asked him if he was suffering pain. He scarcely replied. Then, gently lifting his blanket, I saw that he had been terribly hit by grape shot in his virility. And I felt a deep pity for his youth and his tears.
There was also a boy who used to utter a queer plaint, current in his locality. But I could only catch these syllables: “Ah! mon ... don....” A doctor who was passing said to him:
“Come, come! a little patience! Do not cry out like that.”
The child paused a moment before replying: “I’d have to lose my voice first if I’m not to cry.”
His neighbour was a big, rough, good-natured fellow with a powerful jaw, strong and massive features, with the peculiar shape of the skull and growth of hair that characterise the folk of Auvergne.
He looked at the boy who was groaning at his side, and, turning to me, commented, with a shrug of the shoulders:
“Rotten luck being hit like that, poor child!”