"Hit?" I said.
He stammered: "Yes. The th-thigh. I'm—done for."
I looked. There was a large tear in his trouser, and underneath I caught a glimpse of—such a mess!
I made a movement as if to look for his field dressing. Pink froth appeared on his lips:
"Not—w-worth it," he stuttered.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
I should have liked to pick him up in my arms and carry him away, poor Henriot.
He made an attempt to unbutton his tunic. I helped him. He nodded approval. I think he wanted to get hold of some photograph or letter—the tradition of the dying soldier, whose eternal nobility moved me.
His strength forsook him.