I had my wound dressed. It appeared that after all it would not be necessary to amputate my thumb. A N.C.O. took down my name, and on the cloth band which held my arm in a sling pinned a hospital ticket: "Severe shrapnel wound in left hand. To be invalided back, sitting."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Literally: "Take care of the children."—"Thank you."
[2] Poilu (literally "hairy"): a popular term for the French soldier, equivalent to our "Tommy."
[3] Shouters.
Wednesday, September 23
I had to walk five miles along the main road, upon which the crowd of men wounded in the head, arms, and shoulders gradually became less dense. Finally, I reached Ressons ... the station, the train.... Then the interminable jolting of the cattle-truck half full of mouldy loaves of bread ... fever, thirst. At last the hospital ... bed ... women's hands, the bandage stiff with black blood taken off ... silence ... ah, silence!...
On the 30th September the morning post brought me at the hospital a letter from my friend Hutin, which I copy here in all its simplicity: