Chapter 6

The newcomer's left leg was thickly bandaged, but the blood was oozing through and forming a pool on the table. When the bandage was removed, Captain Dowden examined the limb, but no injury was visible on the upper surface. I grasped the foot--it was blue and cold. I raised it, so that the surgeon could look at the under-surface of the leg. As I did so, the calf gave way in the middle. He told me angrily to pull harder. I pulled until the leg was taut again. The muscles and the sinews squeaked faintly as they stretched. Underneath the calf was a big hole and the bone had been completely shattered. The man was strangely quiet. His bare chest did not move. I looked at his face and suddenly I saw his lower jaw drop. He was dead.

"Another slab for the mortuary!"

The remaining tables were empty and no more wounded were brought in for a while. The bearers were obeying the surgeon's order and were taking a rest. The officers and sisters in the theatre were in high spirits. They were trying to speak French and ridiculing each other's efforts. Captain Wycherley began to hum a tune and wave his amputation knife like the conductor of an orchestra, whereupon the others locked arms and danced up and down the theatre, talking and joking. Then Captain Calthrop broke away and danced by himself, kicking his legs up in the air. The Sisters watched him and laughed loudly. One of them could hardly control herself, and shrieking with laughter, cried:

"Oh, Captain Calthrop, you really are _too_ funny!"

Captain Dowden had not joined in the merrymaking. He was standing by the table on which the corpse was lying. He smiled uneasily and said to an orderly: "Tie up his jaw and his feet and hands and take him away. And tell the bearers to get a move on. Let's get finished as quickly as possible."

The orderly pushed the dead man's lower jaw sharply against the upper, so that the teeth clicked, and kept it in position by tying a bandage right round the head. Then he crossed the dead hands and feet and tied them together also.

He went to the door and shouted, "Bearers!"

But only one bearer appeared with a stretcher over his shoulder. I helped him to lift the corpse on to it and carry it away. It was an intensely black night. All was silent except for an occasional muffled boom in the distance and the sound of someone whimpering in one of the wards. Our load was very heavy and we had to feel our way slowly along the duckboards. When they came to an end we walked through the grass. I was in front and all at once I tripped over some obstacle. With a strenuous effort I retained my balance but nearly tipped the dead man off the stretcher. We walked on, but did not reach the mortuary, although we should have done so long ago. We put the stretcher down and looked around. The darkness enveloped us like a mantle. We could see nothing except a few shafts of light that shone through chinks in the walls of the distant operating theatre. Roughly guessing our direction we continued our journey. I felt a tent rope brushing against my leg. I stepped over it and encountered another, while the orderly knocked his foot against a peg. We put the stretcher down a second time. It rested partly on the ground and partly on the ropes, and we held the corpse for fear it should roll off. We shouted for a light. Someone answered near by and struck a match. The momentary glimmer was sufficient to show that we were standing amongst the ropes of the mortuary marquee. The man struck another match to show us the way in. We entered and added our burden to a double row of other dead, who lay there in the flickering match-light staring at the roof with sightless eyes and rigid, expressionless faces.

When we got back to the theatre all the three teams were busy again.

The bearers came in with a case, and one of them said:

"This is the last Englishman, sir. There's about half a dozen Fritzes to do, sir."

"Bring 'em along--let's get the job done."

The swing-doors were pushed open and two bearers appeared with a stretcher on which a man clothed in grey was lying. His dark hair was matted. His boyish face was intensely white. His eyes were closed. He gave a hardly audible moan with every breath. A blanket was drawn up to his chin.

"Is this a Hun or a gentleman?" asked Captain Calthrop.

"A 'Un, sir," said one of the bearers and grinned.

"Dump him on the table!"

The blanket was removed and a blood-sodden strip of linen unwound from the German boy's right forearm, which was hanging to his shoulder by a few shreds of flesh and sinew.

"Tell him his arm's got to come off."

I explained to the boy that it would be necessary to remove his arm in order to save his life.

He did not seem to understand at first and looked at me with a puzzled expression. Then he suddenly broke into a wail, like a little child, and cried, "Ach Jesus, ach Jesus, ach Jesus ..."

The chloroform mask soon muffled his cries and he became unconscious. I grasped his cold hand and slender wrist. The arm was rapidly amputated. The red stump with the disc of severed bone in the middle was cleaned and bandaged and he was carried back to the prisoners' ward, retching and vomiting.

On Captain Wheeler's table lay a healthy looking German with a bronzed face. His legs were pitted with a great number of small wounds caused by minute bomb fragments. The mask was clapped over his mouth and the chloroform allowed to drip on to it. But he inhaled the fumes with difficulty, and began to choke.

The anæsthetist got angry and snarled:

"That's it, choke away--a choker like all the rest of them--you blasted race of murderers--I'm sorry for the individual though, this deluded fool, for instance."

Captain Dowden was vainly trying to converse with a German who had been hit in the back. The bullet had passed through the lower part of his lung, and then through the abdomen, leaving a hole through which part of the intestine projected.

"Come along and ask him some questions," he said to me. "Don't stand about there doing nothing--make yourself useful. Tell him he'll be well treated--better than the English wounded are treated in Germany."

The prisoner answered in a drawling whisper:

"I never expected bad treatment--the English wounded are not treated badly by us either."

"Aren't they! That's all he knows about it!... Ask him if he likes war."

"O God, no--war's good for the rich, not for the poor."

"I thought these Huns loved warfare--ask him if he thinks Germany will win."

"Germany's in a bad way--Ach Gott, don't ask me any more, give me something to stop my pain!"

"That's the retort diplomatic! Send him off to sleep--let's get the job done."

When the man had lost consciousness, Captain Grierson, the anæsthetist, put the chloroform bottle aside, jumped down from the stool, and searched the pockets of his helpless patient. He did not find much, however, only a few letters and picture postcards until he came to a deep trouser pocket from which he drew a big German pipe.

"Not a bad souvenir," he said, as he put it into his own pocket and returned to his stool. Of course this was not stealing, it was merely "scrounging" or "pinching" or "collecting souvenirs," which is an entirely different thing.

For a time the surgeons worked silently, amputating arms and legs, holding the bare skin between two fingers and cutting the flesh, throwing bleeding bits on to the floor, dressing and bandaging stumps and excised wounds.

Captain Calthrop was grumbling at the tedium of the work when his anæsthetist lit upon a happy thought and said:

"How'd you like to try your hand at giving an anæsthetic? I'll have a shot at surgery--I've never done it before. I'd like to see if I'm any good at it."

"Right you are," replied Captain Calthrop, "we'll change over."

"Jolly good idea," added Captain Wycherley at the next table, "we'll change over too."

"Right-o," said his anæsthetist.

And so the two anæsthetists operated and the two surgeons gave anæsthetics. It was, perhaps, rather a dangerous thing to do, but as the wounded men were only Germans it did not matter.

Captain Dowden took no part in this experiment. In fact he even suggested that it was "a bit thick," but his disapproval did not assume a more tangible form.

After finishing one case each, the four surgeons and anæsthetists changed back again.

"Surgery, isn't so bad as I thought it would be."

"Isn't it--you wait till you get an abdominal!"

"Giving an anæsthetic's rather a ticklish affair. I thought my man was going to choke to death, he got so blue in the face."

A few more Germans with slight flesh wounds that only required dressing were brought in, and then the work of the night shift was over.

The surgeons, anæsthetists and sisters trooped out gaily to have tea and cakes in the shed opposite the entrance to the theatre.

Our work was not yet over, for we still had to put everything in order for the day shift.

The operating theatre looked like a butcher's shop. There were big pools and splashes of blood on the floor. Bits of flesh and skin and bone were littered everywhere. The gowns of the orderlies were stained and bespattered with blood and yellow picric acid. Each bucket was full of blood-sodden towels, splints, and bandages, with a foot, or a hand, or a severed knee-joint overhanging the rim.

Two of us got pails of hot water and set to work with swabs, scrubbing brushes and soap. We mopped up the pools of blood and wrung our swabs out over the pails until the dirty water became dark red. We scrubbed till our arms ached. With our bare hands we brushed the bits of flesh, skin and bone into little heaps and threw them into the buckets, and these we emptied into a big tub after picking out the amputated limbs which we carried off to the incinerator to be burnt. Within an hour and a half the theatre was clean and tidy.

A heap of blankets and articles of clothing had been left in a corner. We loaded them on to a stretcher and carried them to a small tent some distance away, taking a candle with us.

We folded the blankets and stacked them carefully. Some of them were clammy and slippery to the touch. Others were hard and stiff. The rank smell of stale, clotted blood was sickening.

The clothing we carried to the pack store, a large marquee, where we sorted it, putting great-coats, tunics and shirts on separate heaps. I was holding a shirt when I became aware of a tickling sensation across one hand. I hurriedly dropped the garment and lowered the candle so that I could see it distinctly. It was swarming with lice.

We walked out into the darkness and made for our own marquee. As we passed the prisoners' ward an orderly called out from inside:

"'Ere, just come in a minute. 'Ere's a Fritz been 'ollerin' out all the evenin'--come an' tell us what 'e wants."

We went in. The prisoners were lying on stretchers in two rows. Most of them were asleep, but one was tossing about and crying in piteous tones:

"Hab'ich noch'n Arm, oder hab'ich keinen?"

"'E's bin at it for 'ours, pore bloke. Arst 'im what 'e wants--I 'xpect it's somethin' ter do with 'is arm what they took orf early in the evenin'."

I asked the man what he wanted and noticed that his right arm had been taken off at the shoulder. He was silent for a moment and looked at me with haggard eyes. Then suddenly he wailed:

"Kamerad, sag mir doch--Comrade, tell me--is my arm still there, or is it gone?"

"He wants to know if he's still got his arm," I said to the orderly, who turned to the prisoner and exclaimed: "Arm bon, goot!"

"Aber ich fühl ja nichts--But I can't feel anything--for God's sake tell me if it's still there!--Ach Gott, ach Gott, ach Gott."

He buried his face in his pillow and sobbed hysterically.

I explained to him that it had been necessary to remove his arm, but that he would live and be well treated and see no more fighting.

He turned round and stared at me and then shouted jubilantly:

"Jetzt weiss ich's--Now I know--thank God, I shall live, live, live. O du lieber Himmel, das Glúck ist zu gross."

He gave a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction and closed his eyes and turned on his side to go to sleep.

Somehow it seemed strange that there could be any happiness left in the world.

"Thanks awfully," said the orderly. "It must 'a' bin the uncertainty what upset 'im. I'm bloody glad yer came in. Yer've done 'im a world o' good. I took to the pore bloke some'ow--I allus feels pertickler sorry fur wounded Fritzes, I dunno why. I 'xpect 'e's got a missis an' kiddies just like meself.... Good-night!"

"Good-night," I answered, and added mentally:

"Your profession of soldier, the most degrading on earth, has not degraded you. You are engaged in the most infamous and sordid war that was ever fought, and yet you have remained uncontaminated--there is no honour or decoration in all the armies of the world good enough for you."

We entered our marquee and made our beds.

All at once I noticed how utterly tired I was both in mind and body. I crept under the blankets and closed my eyes and saw a vast confusion of red and yellow patches, of severed limbs and staring eyes and blue, distorted faces of suffocating men. They thronged the darkness in ever increasing numbers and then they arranged themselves into a kind of gigantic wheel that began to turn slowly round and round. And suddenly I became conscious of a grief so intense that it seemed almost like physical pain, but weariness soon mastered every other sensation and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

V

WALKING WOUNDED

"The war is doing me good as though it were a bath-cure."

(FIELD MARSHAL VON HINDENBURG.)

Some had dirty bandages round their heads. Some had their arms in slings. Others had hands so thickly swathed that they looked like the huge paws of polar-bears. Many were caked with mud and wore tattered uniforms. Some limped or hobbled along. Others could walk unaided. Some leaned heavily on our shoulders and some we had to carry on our backs.

As each one entered the waiting-room--a little wooden shed opposite the swing-doors of the operating theatre--we took off his boots and tunic and made him sit down in front of the glowing stove. From time to time an orderly would shout across from the theatre:

"Next man!"

And we would take the "next man" over and help him to mount one of the tables.

They were all very quiet at first and many sat with bowed heads. Some were dreading the operation, others, who were not badly wounded, looked bright and cheerful, as well they might, for they were going to have a holiday, perhaps in England, but anyhow at the Base, where they would enjoy a respite from danger, hardship, and misery--a respite that might last for weeks. And in the meantime the war might come to an end--one could never tell.

Two infantrymen with packs and rifles passed by. They had been discharged from the C.C.S. and were going to rejoin their units. They stopped outside the waiting-room for a few minutes and looked enviously at the wounded sitting round the stove inside, and murmured with deep conviction: "Lucky devils."

A patient came out of the theatre with bandaged arm. He held a large, semi-circular piece of iron in his hand.

"Is that what they took out o' yer arm?" said one of the infantrymen.

"Yes--decent bit, isn't it!"

"Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere, to lay me up for months."

His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing:

"I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that hell up the line!"

"'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?"

"Sure!"

The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily.

A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible.

"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?"

The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it. Suddenly a man shouted from the background:

"Them bastard Fritzes--I'd poison the 'ole lot." And that started the argument.

"I reckon one man's as good as another."

"I reckon a Tommy's worth a dozen Fritzes. The bleeders ought ter be wiped orf the face o' the bleed'n' earth. I see 'em do a thing or two, I tell yer--me an' my mate was in the line down Plugstreet way when they crucified a Canadian. I see the tree what they did it on wi' me own eyes--dirty lot o' swine!"

"Bloody lies! Yer read it in the paper!"

"Wha' if I did?"

"Yer said yer saw it yerself!"

"Well, I read it in the papers and then I see the tree what they did it on arterwards. The nails was still there. An' what _d'you_ know about it? Yer in the artillery, yer don't see no fightin'!"

"Don't see no fightin'! Gorblimy, I reckon the infantry wouldn't be much bleedin' cop wi'out the artillery."

"I'll tell yer what the artillery do--blow up their own mates what's in the front line, there now!"

"If we'd 'ad artillery in August, 1914, the war'd 'a' bin over in three weeks!"

"Don't yer believe it! It's the infantry what 'as all the danger an' gits all the rotten jobs. The artillery's cushey compared wi' the infantry."

"The artillery 'as a bloody sight 'eavier losses!"

"Go on--tell us another! It's no good arguin' wi' yer, yer won't see any side 'cept yer own."

But a third man, bringing the argument back to its original subject, said:

"I reckon it's all bloody lies what's in the papers. The Belgies is a damn sight worse'n Jerry. [The Germans.] Yer know that there gun what used to shell Poperinge--well, they never knew where the shells came from till they found it was a Belgian batt'ry 'id in a tunnel. They caught the gunners when they was telephonin' to Jerry. They stood the 'ole bleed'n' lot up aginst a wall an' shot 'em--serve 'em right too."

"Go on--tell us another!"

"I bet yer it's true, now then!"

"How much do you bet?"

"Fifteen bloody francs!"

"All right, I'll take yer on!"

"I reckon the Froggies is the worst," said a man who had not spoken before. "I was out 'ere in 1914 an' they didn't 'alf let us down. I was a bloody fool ter join up though--I'd like to strangle meself for it. They won't catch me volunteerin' for the next war, not this child, no bloody fear! Look at the way they treat yer--like bleed'n' pigs. There ain't no justice anywhere. There's strong an' 'ealthy fellers at the Base just enjoyin' theirselves. Then there's the 'eads what 'as servants to wait on 'em--d'yer think French or Duggie 'Aig ever 'as shells burstin' round 'em? Then there's the Conchies what 'as a easy time in clink--if I see a Conchy in civvy life, I'll knock 'is bloody 'ead orf, struth I will. And the civvies--gorblimy--when I was 'ome on leave they kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet?' an' 'When are yer goin' back?' But d'yer think they care a damn--Not they, you bet yer life on it! _They_ don't want the war to stop--they're earnin' good money an' go to dances an' cinemas. They'd start cryin' if we 'ad peace--I tell yer, I was glad when me leave was over an' I was back wi' me mates. I won't 'alf throw me weight about when I gits out o' the army! I won't 'alf raise 'ell--I'll 'ave a bloody revverlution, you see if I don't!..."

The shout of "Next man" sounded across from the theatre, and the would-be destroyer of the social order got up and walked across.

"Where were you wounded?" asked one of the soldiers of his neighbour who was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips, evidently being in great pain.

"Near Eeps, [Ypres] by the Canal. A shell busted in front o' me an' a bit copped me in the shoulder. Fritz was sending 'em over by the 'undreds, whizz-bangs an' 'eavy stuff all mixed up--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf give yer what for!"

There was a temporary lull in the conversation and then a small, wiry, spiteful looking Cockney spoke. He had reddish hair and big round spectacles of the army pattern.

"I didn' 'alf do it on a Fritz afore I was wounded! 'E give 'isself up an' I takes 'im along--I makes 'im walk in front o' me--yer can't take no risks wi' them bastards. 'E turns rahnd an' says ter me in English--'e must 'a' bin a clurk or a scholard--'e says, sarcastic like, 'I s'pose yer think yer goin' ter win the war!' I gets me rag out an' tells 'im ter mind 'is own bleed'n' business. I tells 'im if I catch 'im lookin' rahnd agin I'll kill 'im! We walks on a bit an' suddenly I throws a Mills at 'im--gorblimy, it wasn't 'alf a fine shot, it busted right on 'is shoulder. It didn' 'alf make a mess of 'im--I bet 'is own mother wouldn't 'a' rekkernized 'im as 'e lay there wi' 'is clock all smashed up!"

"I think it's a damned shame to kill a man after he's surrendered," said a tall Corporal.

"I wasn't goin' ter stand no bleed'n' sarcasm! An' Fritz does the same to our blokes! It's 'e what started it! We learnt it orf of 'im!"

"Yes, that's what they all say. It's always the other man who's done it first. There's been many a fellow who's quite decent at heart who's murdered a helpless prisoner thinking to avenge some abominable outrage that was never committed, but only dished up by some skunk of a pen-pusher who's never seen any fighting in his life. I don't know much about Fritz, he may be worse than us or he may be better, but I've seen our fellows do some bloody awful things. Anyhow, I know the German soldier's doing his bit just as we are. He thinks he's in the right and we think we're in the right, and he's just as much entitled to his opinion as we are to ours. And I tell you straight, if I had the choice between killing a German soldier and killing Lord Northcliffe, I'd shake hands with the German and ask him to help me kill Lord Northcliffe and a few others like him. And I'm not the only one who's that way of thinking, I can tell you. We call ourselves sportsmen, but have we ever recognized that we got a brave enemy? Say what you like about Fritz, he may be a brute, but he's got some pluck--he's up against the world, he is. He'll be beaten in the end, that's a cert, but he's putting up a bloody hard fight. I didn't think much of him before I came out, but it's hats off to him now! But d'you think the civvies or the papers admit it? No bloody fear! The other day I saw a picture of the grenades we use--I think it was in the _Graphic_ or one of these illustrated rags. It was headed, 'Ferreting Fritz out of his Funk Holes.' I know the man who wrote that hasn't been in the trenches himself! He's never seen a lot of Germans lying dead round their machine-gun after fighting to the last, as I have! He hasn't even seen a shell burst, not he! I bet he slipped into _his_ funk hole, though, when there was an air-raid on! Dirty, filthy swine! When I was home on leave I got so wild at the way the civvies talked that I gave them a piece of my mind and told them a thing or two. And one of them called me a pro-German! He, of course, was a patriot. He was making money out of the war and wanted a fight to a finish. Well, I got my rag out properly and I caught him by the throat and shook him till he was blue in the face. It was in the street too, and a lot of people standing about. They didn't say anything more after that, though! I felt I'd done a good deed. I was really glad to feel I'd clutched his windpipe with all my strength. I expect he still wears the marks of my finger-nails, although it happened months ago...."