Instantly there was dead silence. In imagination we saw nothing but those far-off battlefields.
Our names were called, and we were allotted our several tasks. First the stretcher-bearers. There was a long list of these, and in two hours they were to set out for the front, to pick up the wounded in the firing line.
From time to time the officer broke the monotony of the roll-call by trenchant remarks—such as one makes on those occasions when one has accepted one's share of sacrifice simply because it's one's duty to do so.
"You will be just as exposed as those who are fighting. The enemy will fire on the ambulances; and the Red Cross on your armlets and on the buildings will not protect you from German bullets."
The list was growing longer. In their turn men of thirty and forty received the badges of their devotedness.
"There are many of you who will never come back. Your courage will only be the finer. They may kill you, but you will not be able to kill. Your sole duty is to love suffering in spite of everything, no matter how mutilated the being may be who falls across your path, and who cries for pity."
"Even the Boches?"
The officer smiled, then said almost regretfully: "Even the Boches."
Amongst us there was a hum of dissent.