The hospital clothes consisted of a pajama suit of much-faded flannelette, but I was glad to get into it, and doubly glad to get rid of my shirt and tunic, which were stiff on one side with dried blood. From the lazaret, where I had my bath, I could see the gun platform with its machine guns, commanding every part of the Giessen Prison. The guard pointed it out to me, to quiet my nerves, I suppose, and to scare me out of any thought of insubordination. However, he need not have worried—I was not thinking of escaping just then or starting an insurrection either. I was quite content to lie down on the hard straw bed and pull the quilt over me and take a good long rest.
CHAPTER IV
THE LAZARET
The lazaret in which I was put was called "M.G.K.," which is to say Machine Gun Company, and it was exactly like the other hospital huts. There were some empty beds, and the doctor seemed to have plenty of time to attend to us. For a few days, before my appetite began to make itself felt, I enjoyed the rest and quiet, and slept most of the time. But at the end of a week I began to get restless.
The Frenchman whose bed was next to mine fascinated me with his piercing black eyes, unnaturally bright and glittering. I knew the look in his eyes; I had seen it—after the battle—when the wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on stretchers. Some had this look—some hadn't. Those who had it never came back.
And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home, the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless—"something happened"—I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as they did... the letter would be mailed!
Emile, the Frenchman, had the look!
He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung on to life pitifully. He hated to die—I knew that by the way he fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going from him.
In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer into my face, crying "L'Anglaise—l'Anglaise," with his black eyes snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my pillow over my eyes.