IN THE PARIS MILITARY HOSPITAL A visitor to the military hospital within the intrenched camp of Paris, just outside the city walls, said on September 18: "Men of all ranks are there, from the simple private to a general of division. There is no sign of discouragement or sadness on the pale faces, which light up with the thought of returning to battle. "I saw hundreds of men lying on the beds in the wards with varieties of wounds, no two being identical. This Turco--or African soldier--suffered from a torn tongue, cut by a bullet, which traversed his cheek. Another had lost three fingers of his left hand. A bullet entered the temple of this infantryman and fell into his mouth, where by some curious reaction he swallowed it. "Many of the patients are suffering from mere flesh wounds. One poor fellow whose eye was put out by a bullet said: "That's nothing. It is only my left eye and I aim with my right. I need the lives of just three Germans to pay for it." SMOKE AS WOUNDS ARE TREATED "The Turcos, though terrible hand-to-hand fighters, are hard to care for. They have great fear of pain and it is difficult to bandage their wounds. The doctors give them cigarettes, which they smoke with dignity as if performing a ritual. "All the African soldiers were wrathful at a German officer lying in a neighboring room. They muttered in a sinister fashion, 'To-morrow!' and put two hands to the neck. I understood this to mean that they would strangle him to-morrow. Much vigilance is required to keep the officer out of their reach. "One Turco killed two Prussians with his bayonet and two with the stock of the gun in a single fight. His body is covered with the scars of years of fighting in the service of France. When asked if he liked France he replied: 'France good country, good leaders, good doctors.' He seemed to mind his wound less than the lack of cigarettes." SPIRIT OF BELGIAN SOLDIERS Writing from Antwerp on September 1, William G. Shepherd, United Press staff correspondent, illustrated the spirit of the soldiery of Belgium by the following story: "The little Belgian soldier who climbed into the compartment with me was dead tired; he trailed his rifle behind him, threw himself into the seat and fell sound asleep. He was ready to talk when he awoke an hour later. "'Yes, I was up all night with German prisoners,' he said. 'It was a bad job, there were only sixteen of us to handle 200 Germans. We had four box cars and we put twenty-five prisoners in one end of the car and twenty-five in the other, and the four of us with rifles sat guard by the car door. "'We rode five hours that way and I expected every minute that the whole fifty Germans in the car would jump on us four and kill us. Four to fifty; that's heavy odds. But we had to do it. You see there aren't enough soldiers in Belgium to do all the work, so we have to make out the best we can.' "That's the plucky little Belgian soldier, all over.