“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. He was too engrossed to see me, having his arm round a girl who was standing with him under an unlighted lamp-post. She was looking up into his face on which the moonlight shone—a pretty creature, I thought.
“Je t’adore!” she murmured as I passed quite close; and Clatworthy kissed her.