Did Rebic, that grey-haired sergeant, not richly deserve that a loving family waited longingly for him at home? One day we came to dress the big gash in his side, and we hastened to bring him white linen and made him a warm bed; he began to weep, good and simple man, and we asked him why, and he made this sublime answer: “I cry because of the agony and misery I am giving you.” As for Louba, we could not expect to hear him speak: a shell had smashed in his face. There remained nothing of it except one immense cruel gash; an eye displaced, twisted; and forehead--a humble peasant forehead. Yet one day, as we whispered some brotherly words, Louba wished to show how pleased he was, and he smiled to us. They will remember, those who saw the soul of Louba smiling faceless. Freyssinet, child of twenty, often lapsed into delirium, and was aware of it in his conscious moments, and asked pardon of those whom it might have disturbed. The hour came when he sank into the peace everlasting. A much-decorated personage was making the round of the wards attended by an imposing suite. He stopped at the foot of each bed and uttered, in a fitting voice, words conferring whatever honour which they represented in the minds of the patients. He stopped before Freyssinet’s bed and began his speech. As he was an important and methodical man, he said what he had to say without noticing the many signs that were being made to make him desist. Having spoken, he nevertheless asked those who were looking on: “You wanted to tell me something?” “Yes,” replied someone; “it is that the man is dead.” But Freyssinet was so modest, so timid, that the very attitude of his corpse betrayed respect and confusion. It is there, also, that I made the acquaintance of Touche. He came to us, poor Touche! his head broken, having had to leave a temporary hospital owing to its catching fire. I saw him turning out with his groping hands a bag which contained all his possessions. “No, no,” he was saying, “they are all lost, and I’ll never find them.” “What are you looking for?” I asked. “I am looking for the little photos of my two boys and of my wife. Unfortunately, they are lost. I shall miss them.” I helped him in his search, and then I saw that Touche was blind. Poor Touche! He easily recognised me by my voice and always had a smile for me. He was awkward at table, as a man would naturally be who is not yet accustomed to his infirmity. But he tried to manage by himself, and used to tell us in a quiet voice: “I am doing my best, you see: I scrape my plate until I feel there is nothing more.” Could I forget the name of the man who was brought in, one night, with his two legs smashed, and who murmured simply: “It’s hard to have to die! But come! I’ll be brave.”