The men have done all that they could do. Every one of them did all that he could do, and kept on doing it as long as he could. And when he could do no more, why then he was out of it, and it was for others to take up and go on with. He himself was done with it. He would rather not talk about it. It had been so bad that he does not want to talk about it. He does not want to think about it any more. He would rather talk about things that used to happen "dans le pays," about the vines or the corn, or the fishing boat with oars or with sails, and "la vieille" and "les petiots." "It is pretty bad?" I say, perhaps, to this one or that one, when I see how he is suffering. I have never heard one of them say, "C'est pour la France." But what they always, always say, all of them, is a thing I think very beautiful. "You suffer much, my child?" "Pas trop, Madame." Always it is, "Not too much." But sometimes it is too much, and they cannot bear it. And when I look at the bed that used to be his, I think of him lying there trying to smile and to say that his suffering was not too much. And the new man in the bed says those same words, as if it were a little formula always an answer to the question I cannot help asking. "You suffer much?" "Not too much, Madame." Sometimes they say, "Ca va aller mieux." "Ca ne va pas, mon petit?" "Ca va aller mieux." There is only one thing that is like the things one reads of. It is that the men, when they are very, very bad, always, always call for their mothers. I remember reading that somewhere, and thinking it was just something somebody had thought pretty to write. But it is one of the most true and simple and beautiful things that there can be in the world. It is strange too. When they suffer desperately, they keep saying, "My mother, my poor mother," as if it were she who suffered. They seem to be grieving for her, not for themselves. When they are frightened they call for her. Some of them are frightened of taking chloroform. They have fought and not been afraid, they would not be afraid to die, but chloroform is different. Joseph opens the double doors of the ward and pushes the stretcher cart in and calls the number this or that. He is all ready and waiting. Joseph lifts him from the bed to the cart. I double a pillow under his head and wrap the blanket over, and follow. The doors at the other side of the hall are closed, and I run ahead to open them, and shut them behind again after the cart. If I can make an excuse I go down the corridor and wait also at the door of the operating room. I know the men hate to wait there alone. Sometimes there is very long to wait. And Joseph has to go to do other things.