e
wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on
stretchers. Some had this look--some hadn't. Those who had it never
came back.

And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home,
the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless--"something
happened"--I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as
they did... the letter would be mailed!

Emile, the Frenchman, had the look!

He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was
now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung
on to life pitifully. He hated to die--I knew that by the way he
fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going
from him.

In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer
into my face, crying "L'Anglaise--l'Anglaise," with his black eyes
snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my
pillow over my eyes.

But one afternoon, in the middle of it, the great silence fell on
him, and Emile's struggles were over.

* * *

Our days were all the same. Nobody came to see us; we had no books.
There was a newspaper which was brought to us every two weeks,
printed in English, but published in German, with all the German fine
disregard for the truth. It said it was "printed for Americans in
Europe." The name of it was "The Continental Times," but I never
heard it called anything but "The Continental Liar." Still, it was
print, and we read it; I remember some of the sentences. It spoke of
an uneasy feeling in England "which the presence of turbaned Hindoos
and Canadian cowboys has failed to dispel." Another one said, "The
Turks are operating the Suez Canal in the interests of neutral
shipping." "Fleet-footed Canadians" was an expression frequently
used, and the insinuation was that the Canadians often owed their
liberty to their speed.

But we managed to make good use of this paper. I got one of the
attendants, Ivan, a good-natured, flat-footed Russian, to bring me
a pair of scissors, and the boy in the cot next to mine had a stub
of pencil, and between us we made a deck of cards out of the white
spaces of the paper, and then we played solitaire, time about, on
our quilts.

* * *

I got my first parcel about the end of May, from a Mrs. Andrews whose
son I knew in Trail and who had entertained me while I was in London.
I had sent a card to her as soon as I was taken.