“Marthe de Méricourt, she calls herself, as a singing-girl. I guess that’s why Pierre could not hear of her in this town.”
Later on the doctor spoke again.
“That girl is as much a war victim as if she had been shell-shocked on the field of battle. The casualty lists don’t say anything about civilians, not a darned thing about broken hearts, stricken women, diseased babies, infant mortality—all the hell of suffering behind the lines. May God curse all war devils!”
He put his hand on my shoulder and said in a very solemn way: “After this thing is finished—this grisly business—you and I, and all men of goodwill, must put our heads together to prevent it happening again. I dedicate whatever life I have to that.”
He seemed to have a vision of hope.
“There are lots of good fellows in the world. Wickham Brand is one of ‘em. Charles Fortune is another. One finds them everywhere on your side and mine. Surely we can get together when peace comes and make a better System somehow!”
“Not easy, doctor.”
He laughed at me.
“I hate your pessimism!... We must get a message to Pierre Nesle.... Good-night, sonny!”
On the way back to my billet I passed young Clatworthy.