The train stayed with us perhaps half an hour, and in that half hour at least a hundred men must have had treatment of sorts.  A signal sounded and the orderlies lifted up the few wasted specters who still remained and toted them out.  Almost the last man to be borne away was injured in both legs; an orderly carried him in his arms.  Seeing the need of haste the orderly sought to heave his burden aboard the nearest car.  The men in that car protested; already their space was overcrowded.  So the patient orderly staggered down the train until he found the crippled soldier’s rightful place and thrust him into the straw just as the wheels began to turn.  As the cars, gathering speed, rolled by us we could see that nearly all the travelers were feeding themselves from pannikins of the bull-meat stew.  Wrappings on their hands and sometimes about their faces made them doubly awkward, and the hot tallowy mess spilt in spattering streams upon them and upon the straw under them.

They were on their way.  At the end of another twenty-four hour stretch they might have traveled fifty or sixty or even seventy miles.  The place they left behind them was in worse case than before.  Grease spattered the earth; the floor of the buffet room was ankle deep, literally, in discarded bandages and blood-stiffened cotton; and the nurses and the doctors and the helpers dropped down in the midst of it all to snatch a few precious minutes of rest before the next creaking caravan of misery arrived.  There was no need to tell them of its coming; they knew.  All through that afternoon and night, and through the next day and night, and through the half of the third day that we stayed on in Maubeuge, the trains came back.  They came ten minutes apart, twenty minutes apart, an hour apart, but rarely more than an hour would elapse between trains.  And this traffic in marred and mutilated humanity had been going on for four weeks and would go on for nobody knew how many weeks more.

When the train had gone out of sight beyond the first turn to the eastward I spoke to the head surgeon of the German contingent—­a broad, bearded, middle-aged man who sat on a baggage truck while an orderly poured a mixture of water and antiseptics over his soiled hands.

“A lot of those poor devils will die?” I suggested.

“Less than three per cent of those who get back to the base hospitals will die,” he said with a snap of his jaw, as though challenging me to doubt the statement.  “That is the wonder of this war—­that so many are killed in the fighting and that so few die who get back out of it alive.  These modern scientific bullets, these civilized bullets”—­he laughed in self-derision at the use of the word—­“they are cruel and yet they are merciful too.  If they do not kill you outright they have a little way, somehow, of not killing you at all.”

“But the bayonet wounds and the saber wounds?” I said.  “How about them?”