Next to them a German was dying, and others badly hit were glassy-eyed in their fatigue and exhaustion.  This was the word, exhaustion, for all the wounded.

They had not the strength for passion or emotion.  The fuel for those fires was in ashes.  All they wanted in this world was to lie quiet; and some fell asleep not knowing or caring probably whether they were in Germany or in France.  In the other rows, in contrast with this chameleon, baffling green, were the red trousers of the French and the dark blue of the Belgian uniforms, sharing the democracy of exhaustion with their foe.

A misty rain was falling.  In a bright spot of light through a window one by one the wounded were being lifted up on to a seat, if they were not too badly hit, and on to an operating-table if their condition were serious.  A doctor and a sturdy Frenchwoman of about thirty, in spotless white, were in charge.  Another woman undid the first-aid bandage and still another applied a spray.  No time was lost; there were too many wounded to care for.  The thing must be done as rapidly as possible before another train-load came in.  If these attendants were tired, they did not know it any more than the wounded had realized their fatigue in the passion of battle.  The improvized arrangement to meet an emergency had an appeal which more elaborate arrangements of organization which I had seen lacked.  It made war a little more red; humanity a little more human and kind and helpless under the scourge which it had brought on itself.

Though Calais was not prepared for wounded, when they came the women of energy and courage turned to the work without jealousy, without regard to red tape, without fastidiousness.  I have in mind half a dozen other women about the streets that day in uniforms of short skirts and helmets, who belonged to a volunteer organization which had taken some care as to its regimentals.  They were types not characteristic of the whole, of whom one practical English doctor said:  “We don’t mind as long as they do not get in the way.”  Their criticisms of Calais and the arrangements were outspoken; nothing was adequate; conditions were filthy; it was shameful.  They were going to write to the English newspapers about it and appeal for money.  When they had organized a proper hospital, one should see how the thing ought to be done.  Meantime, these volunteer Frenchwomen were doing the best they knew how and doing it now.

A fine-looking young Frenchman who had a shell-wound in the thigh was being lifted on to the table.  He shuddered with pain, as he clenched his teeth; yet when the dressing was finished he was able to breathe his thanks.  On the seat was a Congo negro who had been with one of the Belgian regiments, coal black and thick-lipped, with bloodshot eyes; an unsensitized human organism, his face as expressionless as his bare back with holes made by shell-fragments.  A young Frenchwoman—­she could not have been more than nineteen —­with a face of singular refinement, sprayed his wounds with the definiteness of one trained to such work, though two days before it had probably never occurred to her as being within the possibilities of her existence.  Her coolness and the coolness of the other women in their silent activity had a charm that added to one’s devout respect.