“Hang it! D’you think that spots on the skin....”
Behind him, collapsed almost on a bench, a tall man who might be anything between twenty and sixty years of age is carefully undressing. His face makes you feel very sorry for him: he seems plunged in the depths of human despair. He takes off an incredible amount of clothing, knitted vests and woollen things; and then there appear some very touching articles: satchels, flannel fronts, scapularies, objects of devotion. All these he places on the bench. The men next to him shift suddenly, and his clothes slip on the floor and are trodden upon by those who have just come in. The man is very pale, as if people were trampling upon his intimate life and his self-respect.
A discussion suddenly breaks upon the silence. The old doctor was exclaiming in a furious tone:
“I tell you I can hear nothing!”
With both hands he was pressing down the shoulders of a poor weak wretch as thin as a poker, and who looked terrified.
With one word the poor devil was ordered into the fighting forces, and he went away, more upset, trembling and panic-stricken than he would ever be in the trenches in front of the machine-guns.
But at the other end of the hall something unusual was happening.
“I tell you I can walk,” protested a rasping voice, eaten away by goodness knows what disease.
“No,” replied the young doctor, “no; be reasonable, and go home. We’ll take you later when you’ve recovered.”
“If you don’t want me, I shall do myself in.... But I tell you I have reasons for going to the front. I am not going to stand any more insults day after day.”