and streaks of muddy water
on the green linoleum. Outside the guns roar and inside the _baracques_
shake, and again and again the stretcher bearers come into the ward,
carrying dying men from the high tables in the operating room. They are
all that stand between us and the guns, these wrecks upon the beds.
Others like them are standing between us and the guns, others like
them, who will reach us before morning. Wrecks like these. They are old
men, most of them. The old troops, grey and bearded.

There is an attack going on. That does not mean that the Germans are
advancing. It just means that the ambulances are busy, for these old
troops, these old wrecks upon the beds, are holding up the Germans.
Otherwise, we should be swept out of existence. Our hospital, ourselves,
would be swept out of existence, were it not for these old wrecks upon
the beds. These filthy, bearded, dying men upon the beds, who are
holding back the Germans. More like them, in the trenches, are holding
back the Germans. By tomorrow these others, too, will be with us,
bleeding, dying. But there will be others like them in the trenches, to
hold back the Germans.

This is the day of an attack. Yesterday was the day of an attack. The
day before was the day of an attack. The guns are raising Hell, seven
kilometres beyond us, and our _baracques_ shake and tremble with their
thunder. These men, grey and bearded, dying in our clean beds, wetting
our clean sheets with the blood that oozes from their dressings, have
been out there, moaning in the trenches. When they die, we will pull off
the bloody sheets, and replace them with fresh, clean ones, and turn
them back neatly, waiting for the next agonizing man. We have many beds,
and many fresh, clean sheets, and so we are always ready for these old,
hairy men, who are standing between us and the Germans.

They seem very weak and frail and thin. How can they do it, these old
men? Last summer the young boys did it. Now it is the turn of these old
men.

There are three dying in the ward today. It will be better when they
die. The German shells have made them ludicrous, repulsive. We see them
in this awful interval, between life and death. This interval when they
are gross, absurd, fantastic. Life is clean and death is clean, but this
interval between the two is gross, absurd, fantastic.

Over there, down at the end, is Rollin. He came in three days ago. A
piece of shell penetrated his right eyelid, a little