Sanderson circled above her head in the aeroplane, like a great bird, and then, mounting higher, winged his way to the rear.
CHAPTER XII
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SHIELD
The médecin major himself had hurried to the front and was going through the wards and asking questions when Belinda arrived at the hospital.
The battle had opened unexpectedly, and no time had been given to weed out those blessés who were convalescent. More wounded would be coming in hourly, and now all that could be done was to send those patients that might be moved with any degree of safety to the base hospitals.
That meant transferring them by ambulance to the town where a train sanitaire would take them to the extreme rear. It was known the postes de secours were overflowing and that all the wounded—some of them Germans—had not been removed from the ground between the two lines of trenches.
There had been charging and counter-charging across this No-Man's-Land and the Red Cross men at the battle line made no distinction between fallen enemy and fallen friend.
So Belinda saw all but six of her old patients sent away before noon. Gaston actually wept and kissed her hands at parting. Even grouchy Marius expressed his good wishes for her future—of course, in his own peculiar way.
"The dogs that follow us, Mademoiselle, can be no worse than the dogs who leave. Mon Dieu! No!"
In spite of these removals, this proved to be a trying day for the young Red Cross nurse. There were three deaths among the opérés before night. The médecin chef himself came, at her report, to see what was the matter. There were four others for whom she had fears—grands blessés all.