I
was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to the dressing station near
what is known as the Sunken Road. The ground around the station was
dotted with men suffering from attacks of a similar nature; there were
56 of us in all.
The doctor's examination was brief,--"Gas," and I was laid alongside my
brothers in misery. We were ordered to keep absolutely quiet and on no
account to leave our stretchers; but while lying there the unwelcome
messages from the German guns began coming in our neighborhood; and the
ever terrifying sound of their explosions brought the nerves of the men,
already on edge, over the border line of reason, and a number of them
struggled up from their cots and started running away, forgetting or
ignoring the doctor's orders. The poor fellows paid dearly for it; some
of them dropped in their tracks, dying, where they dropped; some died
after they were brought back to the station, and some gave up the ghost
when in England they lost the last remaining tissue of their lungs, due
to the effect of their running.
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