Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon me: My God! I was alive!
I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and dance for joy. There was a bandage round my head: I was blind! Yes, I knew that, but there was nothing really the matter with me except that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed in comparison a luxury.
I was blind! But joy indescribable—what was that triviality—I was alive! alive!
Oh, my! I never knew before that life was so wonderful. Did other people understand what life was? No; you must be dead to understand what life was worth. I must tell every one how wonderful it all is.
But where was I? I could hear no guns—a bed? There were no beds at the front. I couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been true; otherwise I should have been able to see.
Where then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I know—I am a prisoner of war!
But even this knowledge, which for the moment quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. I was saved! I was alive! No pain racked my limbs; no terror prodded my brain.
But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I was! How hungry! But what of that, I was alive!
And where was England—such a long, long way off. I must go there at once, this minute. No, I can't; I'm a prisoner.
How miserable some people are who have no right to be. They cannot know how wonderful life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then to come to life again.