They were well in sight of the hospital when Barbara’s former terror reasserted itself. With this first glimpse, things were worse than her most terrified dreams had pictured.
Running across the meadows whenever a lull came in the firing were soldiers bearing their stricken comrades. Because few of them dared cease from their own labor of firing, the men at the work of rescue were not soldiers but those who had specially volunteered for the saving of the wounded.
It is not worth while to speak of the scene at the field hospital. If one’s own imagination cannot picture it, perhaps it is better never to know of the horrors of a battlefield.
For the next few hours Barbara and Nona worked as never before in their lives. They became inspired human machines. No longer did they consciously hear even the noises of the cannonading. Every instant something had to be done. There were wounds to be cleansed, bandages put on. The surgeons assisted when an operation could not be delayed.
Often the two American Red Cross girls stood close together without recognizing each other’s presence.
Once and only once did Barbara Meade wake up.
By chance she was standing by the opening of a great tent that had been put up near the stable now serving as a temporary relief station after it had become too crowded for usefulness.
Some special sight or sound must have attracted her attention, although she was not aware of it at the time. Her hands were busy holding a basin of water, but her eyes were drawn in another direction. At that moment Dick Thornton came into the tent bearing a wounded man in his arms.
Barbara paid no attention to the soldier. She found herself wondering two things: one of them why she had not thought before of Dick’s peril, and the other, how had she been able to recognize him so swiftly when it was scarcely possible to see his face?
Surely the Dick she recalled lounging in the beautiful old New York library smoking a cigarette, wearing a velvet coat, perfumed and smiling, had indeed vanished. This fellow’s face was covered with smoke and blood, his khaki coat had been wrapped about a comrade so that now he was in his shirt sleeves, but the shirt was torn and crimson.