While we hung on the news from Verdun—it seemed as though the fate of the world were in Fort Douaumont—our own lists of death grew longer.
In the casualty clearing station by Poperinghe more mangled men lay on their stretchers, hobbled to the ambulance-trains, groped blindly with one hand clutching at a comrade’s arm. More, and more, and more, with head wounds, and body wounds, with trench-feet, and gas.
“O Christ!” said one of them whom I knew. He had been laid on a swing-bed in the ambulance-train.
“Now you will be comfortable and happy,” said the R.A.M.C. orderly.
The boy groaned again. He was suffering intolerable agony, and, grasping a strap, hauled himself up a little with a wet sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Another boy came along alone, with one hand in a big bandage. He told me that it was smashed to bits, and began to cry. Then he smudged the tears away and said: