d up to his little table, wavering, deprecating,
humble, and answered his brief impatient questions. And on the spot he
made snap diagnoses, such as rheumatism, bronchitis, kicked by a horse,
knocked down by despatch rider, dysentery, and so on--a paltry, stupid
lot of ailments and minor accidents, demanding a few days' treatment. It
was a dull service, this medical service, yet one had to be always on
guard against contagion, so the service was a responsible one. But the
_Major_ worked quickly, sorted them out hastily, and then one by one
they disappeared behind a hanging sheet, where the orderlies took off
their old uniforms, washed the patients a little, and then led them to
the wards. It was a stupid service! So different from that of the
_grands blesses_! There was some interest in that! But this _eclope_
business, these minor ailments, this stream of petty sickness, petty
accidents, dirty skin diseases, and vermin--all war, if you like, but
how _banale_!

* * * * *

Later, in the medical wards, the _Major_ made his rounds, to inspect
more carefully the men upon whom he had made snap diagnoses, to correct
the diagnosis, if need be, and to order treatment. The chief treatment
they needed was a bath, a clean bed, and a week of sleep, but the
doctor, being fairly conscientious, thought to hurry things a little,
to hasten the return of these old, tired men to the trenches, so that
they might come back to the hospital again as _grands blesses_. In which
event they would be interesting. So he ordered _ventouses_ or cupping,
for the bronchitis cases. There is much bronchitis in Flanders, in the
trenches, because of the incessant Belgian rain. They are sick with it
too, poor devils. So said the _Major_ to himself as he made his rounds.

Five men here, lying in a row, all ptomaine poisoning, due to some rank
tinned stuff they'd been eating. Yonder there, three men with
itch--filthy business! Their hands all covered with it, tearing at their
bodies with their black, claw-like nails! The orderlies had not washed
them very thoroughly--small blame to them! So the _Major_ made his
rounds, walking slowly, very bored, but conscientious. These dull wrecks
were needed in the trenches. He must make them well.

At Bed 9, Andre stopped. Something different this time? He tried to
recall it. Oh yes--in the sorting tent he'd noticed----

"_Monsieur Major!_" A thin hand, clean and slim, rose to the salute. The
b