“Yes.”
Peter turned away.
“In a good many cases we bring a man to his feet again from a bad wound—to find him not a soldier but a damned anarchist.”
“It's expensive and cumbersome also to carry such a hospital system afield,” Peter observed.
Dabnitz did not catch the irony. “Yes, it would be cheaper and simpler to put a hard-hit soldier out of his misery—”
Boylan, watching Peter's face, suddenly arose, suggesting that they ride out toward the fighting. ....When they were alone, he added:
“I know you don't want the front to-day, but it was very clear that I'd better get you out of there....Peter, did you ever kill a man?”
“No.” The question did not seem wild to either of them—there by the open court of Judenbach.
“I knew a man who did. I saw him getting whiter and whiter like your face—and looking into his victim's eyes in that queer surprised way you looked at Dabnitz. It wasn't in the field; in a city bar-room. I didn't look for what happened—but I knew something was coming. The fool went on talking, talking. The other watched him, and when all the blood was burned out of him....Great God, here I am talking blood—”
“It's in the air,” said Peter. “It's hard to breathe!.... No, I won't go down front to-day. I wish I could go back—back—oh, to the clean Pole—no, to some little snowy woods in the States....Boylan, does it suffocate you?”