f a morgue and a
hospital--only those places have running water, and people in white
aprons to tidy things up. And a battle--Three days under bombardment,
living in the cellar. The guns going off five, six times to the minute,
and then waiting a couple of hours and dropping one in, next door. The
crumpling noise when a little brick house caves in, like a man when you
hit him in the stomach, just going all together in a heap. And the sick
smell that comes out of the mess from plaster and brick dust.

"And getting wounded, that's jolly, isn't it? Rifle ball through your
left biceps. Dick walks you back to the dressing station. Doctor busy at
luncheon with a couple of visiting officers. Lie down in the straw.
Straw has a pleasant smell when it's smeared with iodine and blood. Wait
till the doctor has had his bottle of wine.

"'Nothing very much,' he says, when he gets around to you. Drops some
juice in, ties the white rag around, and you go back to your straw.
Three, four hours, and along come the body snatchers--the chauffeur chap
doesn't know how to drive, bumps into every shell hole for seven miles.
Every half mile, drive down into the ditch mud, to get out of the way of
some ammunition wagons going to the front. The wheel gets stuck. Put on
power, in jumps, to bump the car out. Every jerk tears at your open
sore, as if the wheel had got stuck in your arm and was being pulled
out. Two hours to do the seven miles. Get to the field hospital. No time
for you. Lie on your stretcher in the court, where the flies swarm on
you. Always flies. Flies on the blood of the wounded, glued to the
bandage. Flies on the face of the dead."

So he had once spoken and left them wondering. But that whirling burst
of words was long before, in those earlier days of his work. Nothing
like that had happened in weeks. No such vivid pictures lighted him now.
The man slept on.

There was a scratching at the window, then a steady tapping, then a
resounding fist on the casement. Gradually, the sleeping man came up
through the deep waters of unconsciousness. His eyes were heavy. He sat
a moment, brooding, then turned toward the insistent noise.

"Monsieur Watts!" said a voice.

"Yes," answered the man. He stretched himself, and raised the sash. A
brisk little French Marin was at the window.

"The doctors are at luncheon. They are waiting for you," the soldier
said in rapid Breton French; "today you are their guest."

"Of course," replied the