The wounded were marched across the compound to the “Revier,” a dull, gray, solid-looking building, where again we were examined and graded.  Those seriously wounded were sent to the lazaret, or hospital proper.  I, being one of the more serious cases, was marched farther on to the lazaret, and we were all taken to a sort of waiting-room, and taken off in groups to the general bathroom to have a bath, before getting into the hospital clothes.

With me was a young bugler of the Fifth Royal Highlanders, Montreal, a little chap not more than fifteen, whose pink cheeks and curly hair would have made an appeal to any human being:  he looked so small and lonesome and far from home.  A smart young military doctor jostled against the boy’s shattered arm, eliciting from him a cry of pain, whereupon he began to make fun of the little bugler, by marching around him, making faces.  It gave me a queer feeling to see a grown-up man indulging in the tactics of a spoiled child, but I have heard many people express the opinion, in which I now heartily agree, that the Germans are a childish sort of people.  They are stupidly boastful, inordinately fond of adulation and attention, and peevish and sulky when they cannot have their own way.  I tried to imagine how a young German boy would have been treated by one of our doctors, and laughed to myself at the absurdity of the thought that they would make faces at him!

The young bugler was examined before I was, and as he was marched out of the room, the doctor who had made the faces grabbed at his kilt with an insulting gesture, at which the lad attempted to kick him.  The doctor dodged the kick, and the Germans who were in the room roared with laughter.  I hated them more that minute than I had up to that time.

The Belgian attendants who looked after the bathing of us were kind and polite.  One of them could speak a little English, and he tried hard to get information regarding his country from us.

“Is it well?” he asked us eagerly.  “My country—­is it well?”

We thought of the shell-scarred country, with its piles of smouldering ashes, its pallid women with their haunted faces, the deathlike silence of the ruined streets.  We thought of these things, but we didn’t tell him of them.  We told him the war was going on in great shape:  the Allies were advancing all along the line, and were going to be in Berlin by Christmas.  It was worth the effort to see his little pinched face brighten.  He fairly danced at his work after that, and when I saw him afterwards, he eagerly asked—­“My country—­is it well?” I do not know why he thought I knew, or maybe he didn’t think so.  But, anyway, I did my best.  I gave him a glowing account of the Allied successes, and painted a gloomy future for the Kaiser, and I again had my reward, in his glowing face.

Everything we had was taken from us except shoes, socks, cap, and handkerchief, and we did not see them again:  neither did we get another bath, although I was six weeks in the hospital.