d bodies, the
intensity of physical anguish suggested by sheer force of
multiplication, by the diminishing perspective of the beds, by the clear
light and nakedness of the great hall that sets these repeated units of
torture in a world apart, a world of insufferable space and agonizing
time, ruled by some inhuman mathematics and given over to pure
transcendent pain. A sufficiently large ward full of wounded really
does leave an impression very like that. But the one true thing about
this impression is its transcendence. It is utterly removed from and
unlike anything that you have experienced before. From the moment that
the doors have closed behind you, you are in another world, and under
its strange impact you are given new senses and a new soul. If there is
horror here you are not aware of it as horror. Before these multiplied
forms of anguish what you feel--if there be anything of _you_ left to
feel--is not pity, because it is so near to adoration.

If you are tired of the burden and malady of self, go into one of these
great wards and you will find instant release. You and the sum of your
little consciousness are not things that matter any more. The lowest and
the least of these wounded Belgians is of supreme importance and
infinite significance. You, who were once afraid of them and of their
wounds, may think that you would suffer for them now, gladly; but you
are not allowed to suffer; you are marvellously and mercilessly let off.
In this sudden deliverance from yourself you have received the ultimate
absolution, and their torment is your peace.

In the big ward very few of the men were well enough to smoke. So we
went to the little wards where the convalescents are, Max leading.

I do not think that Max has received absolution yet. It is quite evident
that he is proud of his _entree_ into this place and of his intimacy
with the wounded, of his role of interpreter.

But how perfectly he does it! He has no Flemish, but through his subtle
gestures even the poor Flamand, who has no French, understands what I
want to say to him and can't. He turns this modest presentation of
cigarettes into a high social function, a trifle ambitious, perhaps, but
triumphantly achieved.

All that was over by about three o'clock, when the sanctuary cast us
out, and Max went back to his empty kitchen and became Prosper Panne
again, and remembered that his mother was mad; and I went to the empty
mess-room and became my miserable self