I asked him if anything could be done. His eyes smiled as he answered. But his lips quivered as he took again his missal and his purple bag.
M. C—— is now glad that we went on to Melle.
We helped the four other wounded men in. They sat in a row alongside the stretcher.
I sat on the edge of the ambulance, at the feet of the dying man, by the handles of the stretcher.
At the last minute the Chaplain jumped on to the step. So did the little eager Englishman. Hanging on to the hood and swaying with the rush of the car, he talked continually. He talked from the moment we left Melle to the moment when we landed him at his street in Ghent; explaining over and over again the qualifications that justified him in attaching himself to ambulances. He had lived fourteen years in Ghent. He could speak French and Flemish.
I longed for the eager little Englishman to stop. I longed for his street to come and swallow him up. He had lived in Ghent fourteen years. He could speak Flemish and French. I felt that I couldn't bear it if he went on a minute longer. I wanted to think. The dying man lay close behind me, very straight and stiff; his poor feet stuck out close under my hand.
But I couldn't think. The little eager Englishman went on swaying and talking.
He had lived fourteen years in Ghent.
He could speak French and Flemish.
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