Now I touch the composed and convalescent chat of two poor
wretches--"Ah, my boy, the affection he had for that vine of his!
You couldn't find anything wrong among the branches of it--"
"That little nipper, that wee little kid, when I went out with him,
holding his tiny fist, it felt as if I'd got hold of the little warm
neck of a swallow, you know."
And alongside this sentimental avowal, here is the passing
revelation of another mind: "Don't I know the 547th! Rather! Listen,
it's a funny regiment. They've got a poilu in it who's called
Petitjean, another called Petitpierre, and another called
Petitlouis. Old man, it's as I'm telling you; that's the kind of
regiment it is."
As I begin to pick out a way with a view to leaving the cavern,
there is a great noise down yonder of a fall and a chorus of
exclamations. It is the hospital sergeant who has fallen. Through
the breach that he was clearing of its soft and bloody relics, a
bullet has taken him in the throat, and he is spread out full length
on the ground. His great bewildered eyes are rolling and his breath
comes foaming. His mouth and the lower part of his face are quickly
covered with a cloud of rosy bubbles. They place his head on a bag
of bandages, and the bag is instantly soaked with blood. An
attendant cries that the packets of lint will be spoiled, and they
are needed. Something else is sought on which to put the head that
ceaselessly makes a light and discolored froth.
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