"That will be nothing at all. Shall I dress it for you?"
I cut the sleeve of his coat and shirt. The wound consists of two tiny holes of reddish-brown, one the entrance, the other the exit of the bullet.
"Just a little iodine on it?"
Scared out of his wits, the other says—
"No, no; it would burn too much!"
I dress the wound, and when it is finished say to him—
"Off you go, old fellow; either return to the front or go back to the rear, as you please."
He chooses the rear. Another who has done his day's work.
Reserve squadrons come up. Jouin runs along at full speed instead of crawling. The lieutenant, perceiving him, shouts out—
"Down with you! Down!"