The orderlies wheeled in a low carrier, piled high with transparent plastic overcoats, old fashioned sweaters, woolen mackinaws, and rubber raincoats—any sort of an outdated covering. Most of the patients in these district hospitals were poor, and largely living in the meager comforts of the early part of the century. They made no protest, but donned their variegated assortment of coverings and lined up obediently to march out.
"Let's go with them," Hilda whispered.
"Quick! Behind those screens and into the end of the line," he directed, "the press joins the army of decrepitude."
"John, there are hundreds of ambulance planes outside!"
"Got your transmitter on?"
"Yes, it's been on all the time."
A white faced man ahead of them began to struggle between two guards as they reached the open air. A male nurse, walking behind them, deftly thrust a large hypodermic into the patient's arm, while the orderlies held him and pushed back his sleeve. The rebellious one quieted and was carried into one of the planes.
There were a few other struggles of resistance. Here and there a patient ran a few yards before being caught and subdued. For the most part the unhappy crowd showed only a quiet despairing obedience.
John urged in a low worried tone, "Let's make a dash for our roller—this is no place for you."
"No, this is horrible—we must see it through. Pretend to be sick and go along."