He had been
shot through the back at the battle of Nalinnes, and was three days on
the battlefield before he was picked up. Now he lay dying in a little
side room off the ward. The least movement caused him acute agony, even
the pillow had to be moved an inch at a time before it could be turned,
and it took half an hour to change his shirt. The doctor had said in the
morning he could not last another forty-eight hours. But if he was alive
the next morning he would be put in those horrible springless carts, and
jolted, jolted down to the station, taken out and transferred to a
shaky, vibrating train, carrying him far away into Germany.
Mercifully he died very peacefully in his sleep that evening, and we
were all very thankful that the end should have come a little earlier
than was expected.
Late that night came a message that the men were not to start till
midday, so we got them all dressed somehow by eleven. All had had bad
nights, nearly all had temperatures, and they looked very poor things
when they were dressed; even fat, jolly Adolphe looked pale and subdued.
We had not attempted to do anything with the bad bed cases; if they
_must_ go they must just go wrapped up in their blankets.
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