HEROES OF VERDUN

Dominion, Volume 9, Issue 2799, 17 June 1916, Page 10

HEROES OF VERDUN

ROUND A FIELD HOSPITAL

CHEERFULNESS IN DEATH

the road js like one of those rolling carpets which amused country cousins so much in the big shops till the escalators in tube stations made yestenlay's marvel quite ail ordinary London sight (Writes .foiiu N. Raphael, "Daily Express" correspondent, from Paris;. For the road is, shell holes and all, a moving grey carpet of motor wagons carrynig munitions. The whole road seems to roil on aud roll on towards Verdun. But every now and then the traffic narrows, and room is made for other cars passing in the other direction—hospital cars curryiug wounded to the roar.

And in the field hospital heroism is a commonplace. These men are not the irenzied heroes of tho battlefield now. J- 'ley are all tho.more wonderful for that. I know ot nothing which tugs at the heart-strings more than the arrival of the first stretcher when ouo knows that tho tutu of wounded has been heavy. I lie man on the first stretcher, a mere youngster, is all eyes. He is clutching a blue steel helmet with a hor.rid jagged hole in it. "I want to keep my helmet," he says. "Jlay I It's a pal." Tho doctor smiles, nods, and the hero and his helmet go on. "Here I am again," he gasps with a chuckle. "1 didn't thiijk I should be back so soon."

The lieutenant is only a boy, a fair boy with blue hair and .fair ilufl' on his unshaven chin, which glints golden like a baby chicken's first feathers. The man who is emptying his pockets looks up. .lion lieiittyimit," he says, "there are papers and letters here which are not yours.

"Yes,' I remember now," says the wounded man. "I was lying with my buck against a little mound of earth. I was shiverin-f with cold, and my teeth were chattering. 4. company was just going to attack. ... I remember —. He was a big private with a heavy moustache and kind eyes. 'Poor little devil,' he said, 'you are cold.' And he took 'his coat cil and flung it over mo. I saw him oil in his shirt-sleeves to catch the 0 T' le orderly puts a photograph, a military pay-book, and a purse on the bed. It is a dirty little old leather purse, with a ten-franc piece, three halfpennies, sind two cigarettes in it. "Probably all lie had in the world. We piust try to find*him," says the wounded lieutenant. "Thank goodness I'm rich, and can make him comfortable for life if 1 do find him. He was a good chap that." th° 1 ittle lieutenant closes his eyes. "He'll never open them again," whispers the doctor. "Madame," says the orderly, hurrying up to the sister in charge, "will you tell mon capitaine that he must' not try to get into his bed, without help. Hia whole side is torn' away." He is a young officer of chasseurs. "Please, madame," he says, "I'm all right. You should have seen my men, madame." Cheerful to the End. "They carried me oil like a baby, in one of their coats. A shell burst just over us, and they put me down on the ground and sheltered me Vitli their own bodies. When can Igo back to them, madame, do you think! 1 Undress me? No, madame, I will never permit that." There are 110 groans, no moans, very few complaints. These broktfn men in the officers' ward—men, I said; they are mere boya very often—smile, murmur tiianks, and joke in pale voices ail the time. But they never complain. One little lieutenant with curlv haii, and eyes which are rapidly glazing, asks for tiie sister in charge. "Excuse me for troubling you, madame." ho murmurs, still smiling. "I know you are busy, but I want you to do me a favour; I am dying, madame" —his fingers pick at the "bedspread. "Theso letters, this photograpn. ... I want you to burn them for me,"

The sister presses her lips together tightly, and holds out her haud for the letters. She cannot speak. The man's little brown hand, a hand like a woman's, fastens on the papers and photograph, and the blue eyes are infinitely pathetic. His lips tremble. Then, . 'Thank you, madame." He holds them to his breast a moment. He has not tho strength to raise them to his moutli. The nurse's tears are dropping fast on her white bib. "My mother," says the dying man. "Would you like to dictate a letter to her?" "Not—strong—enough —you tell her," and he smiles again. "Thank you, madame; good-night. Don't cry. The others need you more than 1 do.

"What Did You Stop?"

A little group of officers in filthy uniforms are sitting round the (ire. They are all badly wounded, but there are worse wounded than they, and they are waiting their _turii for attention quite patiently. "You were a circus, old man,' says one of them,' "with your hair flying about and your bag of grenades bumping your tummy like, the little hag?, the American schoolmistress • tourists wear in Paris in summer; And did yon see P- — with his yellow gloves and his gentle little voice: "Too';disgust- 1 ingj.' these- Bosches, aren't they? Inelegant "chaps, really, what?' He's a man, though, is P , 'gloves, girlish voice, and all! More zip than all "of. us- put together."

Tho last-of the stretchers, bumps Ihto the. door of the ward as -it conies in. "I wonder, madame," says a faint'voice, "whether you could find me a few- drops of eau-de-Cologne? I-smell most unpleasantly. lam quite ashamed-of myyelf really, what?" The three officer* round the fire jump up. "P , "von yonngscoundrel!" "Yes, I'm 11-bit late, but I was busy." "What dill 'vou stbp?" The young officer on tiie stretcher smiles and uncovers himself. "Only this," lie says. Half his right arm is : gone. "It was a nasty , mess, old chap. I didn't like it." "Poor devil!" grunts the other. "0, it's nothing," says -P— r. "A neat little mechanical hnnd with a glove on it. YOll always rotted me about .my gloves. You see now, I was practising. Things are going fine out there, you know, you chaps. They rcn't advance a yard,-. the blighters! Poor devils! I'm really rather sorry for the Bosches. They're working hard.". "But your hand, P— —"I'm goir.g to learn to write with the other one tomorrow. I want to write n love-letter." And he snuggles back 011 tho stretcher, and laughs self-consciously.