VII—THE DEATH WAILS OF THE WOUNDED
Night falls. The cold increases. It is that hour when, the battle ended, the wounded who have not yet been brought in, cry aloud in their suffering and distress. And those calls, those appealings, those moanings, awaken anguish in all those compelled to listen to them; an anguish the crueler for the fighters who are chained to their posts by stern duty yet who long to rush out to their gasping comrades, to dress their wounds, to speak words of comfort to them, and to carry them to safety where fires burn brightly and warm. Yet we must not do so; we are chained to the spot, our hearts wrung, our nerves quivering, shivering at the sound of soul-stricken cries brought to us unceasingly by the night.
"A drink!..."
"Are you going to leave me to die here?..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."
"Drink!..."
"Ah!..."
"Stretcher-bearers!..."
I hear some of my men say: