g station.

The two wounded are put into my car. From hip to heel one is swathed in
bandages; the other has a great white turban on his head, with a red
patch on it that spreads and spreads. They stare dully, but make no
sound. As I crank the car there is a shrill screaming noise. . . .
About thirty yards away I hear an explosion like a mine-blast, followed
by a sudden belch of coal-black smoke. I stare at it in a dazed way.
Then the doctor says: "Don't trouble to analyze your sensations. Better
get off. You're only drawing their fire."

Here is one of my experiences:

A Casualty

That boy I took in the car last night,
With the body that awfully sagged away,
And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,
And the poor hands folded and cold as clay--
Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.

For the weary old doctor says to me:
"He'll only last for an hour or so.
Both of his legs below the knee
Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,
And please remember, he doesn't know."

So I tried to drive with never a jar;
And there was I cursing the road like mad,
When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:
"Tell me, old chap, have I 'copped it' bad?"
So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad."

"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two
Life's so splendid, I hate to go.
There's so much good that a chap might do,
And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.
'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."

"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,
And I passed him a cheery word or two;
But he didn't answer for many a mile,
So just as the hospital hove in view,
Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"

Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;
And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;
"Thank you--you're far too kind," says he:
"I'm awfully comfy--stay . . . let's see:
I fancy my blanket's come unrolled--
My _feet_, please wrap 'em--they're cold . . . they're cold."

There is a city that glitters on the plain. Afar off we can see
its tall cathedral spire, and there we often take our wounded
from the little village hospitals to the rail-head. Tragic little buildings,
these emergency hospitals--town-halls, churches, schools;
their cots are never empty, their surgeons never still.

So every day