I turn round. At the end opposite that where the faraway light leaks
through, a mob is gathered in front of a tent-cloth which reaches
from the ceiling to the ground, and thus forms an apartment, whose
illumination shines through the oily yellow material. In this
retreat, anti-tetanus injections are going on by the light of an
acetylene lamp. When the cloth is lifted to allow some one to enter
or leave, the glare brutally besplashes the disordered rags of the
wounded stationed in front to await their treatment. Bowed by the
ceiling, seated, kneeling or groveling, they push each other in the
desire not to lose their turn or to steal some other's, and they
bark like dogs, "My turn!"--"Me!"--"Me!" In this corner of
modified conflict the tepid stinks of acetylene and bleeding men are
horrible to swallow.
I turn away from it and seek elsewhere to find a place where I may
sit down. I go forward a little, groping, still stooping and curled
up, and my hands in front.
By grace of the flame which a smoker holds over his pipe I see a
bench before me, full of beings. My eyes are growing accustomed to
the gloom that stagnates in the cave, and I can make out pretty well
this row of people whose bandages and swathings dimly whiten their
beads and limbs. Crippled, gashed, deformed, motionless or restless,
fast fixed in this kind of barge, they present an incongruous
collection of suffering and misery.
One of them cries out suddenly, half rises, and then sits down
again.
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