We passed a dead Canadian Highlander, whose kilt had pitched forward when he fell, and seemed to be covering his face.

In the first village we came to, they halted us, and we saw it was a dressing-station.  The village was in ruins—­even the town pump had had its head blown off!—­and broken glass, pieces of brick, and plaster littered the one narrow street.  The dressing was done in a two-room building which may have been a store.  The walls were discolored and cracked, and the windows broken.

On a stretcher in the corner there lay a Canadian Highlander, from whose wounds the blood dripped horribly and gathered in a red pool on the dusty floor.  His eyes were glazed and his face was drawn with pain.  He talked unceasingly, but without meaning.  The only thing I remember hearing him say was, “It’s no use, mother—­it’s no use!”

Weller was attended to before I was, and marched on.  While I sat there on an old tin pail which I had turned up for this purpose, two German officers came in, whistling.  They looked for a minute at the dying Highlander in the corner, and one of them went over to him.  He saw at once that his case was hopeless, and gave a short whistle as you do when blowing away a thistledown, indicating that he would soon be gone.  I remember thinking that this was the German estimate of human life.

He came to me and said, “Well, what have you got?”

I thought he referred to my wound, and said, “A shoulder wound.”  At which he laughed pleasantly and said, “I am not interested in your wound; that’s the doctor’s business.”  Then I saw what he meant; it was souvenirs he was after.  So I gave him my collar badge, and in return he gave me a German coin, and went over to the doctor and said something about me, for he flipped his finger toward me.

My turn came at last.  The doctor examined my pay-book as well as my wound.  I had forty-five francs in it, and when he took it out, I thought it was gone for sure.  However, he carefully counted it before me, drawing my attention to the amount, and then returned it to me.

After my wound had been examined and a tag put on me stating what sort of treatment I was to have, I was taken away with half a dozen others and led down a narrow stone stair to a basement.  Here on the cement floor were piles of straw, and the place was heated.  The walls were dirty and discolored.  One of the few pleasant recollections of my life in Germany has been the feeling of drowsy content that wrapped me about when I lay down on a pile of straw in that dirty, rat-infested basement.  I forgot that I was a prisoner, that I was badly winged, that I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired.  I forgot all about my wounded companions and the Canadian Highlander, and all the suffering of the world, and drifted sweetly out into the wide ocean of sleep.

Some time during the night—­for it was still dark—­I felt some one kicking my feet and calling me to get up, and all my trouble and misery came back with a rush.  My shoulder began to ache just where it left off, but I was so hungry that the thought of getting something to eat sustained me.  Surely, I thought, they are going to feed us!