These, whose faces are black with flies, with which the air is infested and which cling to their wounds, cast on all sides distracted glances. But no one notices. On these, the cloaks, shirts, flesh and blood form a compact mass that cannot be removed.
Here, lies a soldier totally disfigured; his tongue hanging far out of his broken jaws. He stirs and wishes to rise. I moisten his dried palate and hardened tongue. Seizing a handful of lint I soak it in a bucket and squeeze the water from this improvised sponge in the formless opening which is in the place of his mouth.
There, is an unfortunate man a part of whose face, the nose, lips and chin have been cut away by the stroke of a sword. Incapable of speech, half blind, he makes signs with his hands, and by that heartrending pantomime, accompanied by guttural sounds, draws attention to himself. I give him a drink by dropping gently on his blood-covered face a little pure water.
A third, with a cleft head, expires, his blood spreading over the stone floor of the church. He presents a horrible sight. His companions in misfortune push him with their feet, for he incommodes the passage. I protect his last moments and cover with a handkerchief his poor head which he still feebly moves.
Although every house has become an infirmary, and every family has dedicated itself to nursing the wounded officers, that it has gathered in, nevertheless I succeed by Sunday morning in collecting a certain number of women of the people, who assist, as best they can, in the efforts made to help so many thousands of wounded men who are without succor. Food must be given, and above all, drink, to the men who literally are dying from hunger and thirst. Wounds must be bandaged, blood-stained bodies, covered all over with dirt and vermin, must be washed, and all this must be done in the extremely hot weather, in the midst of the suffocating, nauseating stench, and of groans and cries of pain.
Nevertheless, a little group of volunteers is formed. I organize, well as I can, aid in the section which seems to be the most without care, and I choose one of the churches of Castiglione, called Chiesa Maggiore.
Nearly five hundred soldiers are crowded together on the straw, about one hundred others, suffering and groaning, are lying in the public park before the church.
In the church the women of Lombardy go from one to the other with jars and pitchers full of clear water, which serves to appease the thirst and to bathe the wounds. Some of these improvised nurses are good-hearted old women, others are charming young girls. Their gentleness, goodness, compassion, and their attentive care restores a little courage to the wounded.
The boys of the neighborhood come and go between the church and the nearby springs with buckets, pitchers and jars.