Americans -- England -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- England -- Fiction
'By Gar!' said the French-Canadian. 'See, the orderly come now with
water for shav'. Back in de bush or on de long portage I shav' once,
twice, perhaps tree time a month. Always before I meet my leetle girl I
shav'. But when I say good-bye and go to war--by gollies! de army make
me for do it every day. My officier, he say, "What for you no shav' dis
morning?" "Sair," I say, "I no kees de Boche--I keel him." He say
noding to dat excep', "Look at you. I shav' every day. Do you preten' I
doan' fight?" "Well," I say, "if de cap feets you, smoke it." And for
no reason he give me tree time extra for carry de godam ration.'
At this stage the arrival of wash-basins interrupted further anecdote and
philosophy, and the entire ward became animated with soldiers performing
their ablutions, some sitting up in bed, others on the edge of their
beds, and a few so weak that they could just turn painfully on their side
and wait for other hands to help.
A burst of hearty greetings told Selwyn that some one must have entered
the ward, and a few minutes later he felt the presence of a nurse beside
him.
'Good-morning,' she said, gently touching him on the shoulder. 'How is
your head feeling?'
He opened his eyes and looked into the face bending over his. 'I think
it's all right,' he said weakly. 'But, nurse, won't you tell me how I
got here?'
She dipped a cloth into a basin and bathed his hands and face.
'You were hit by a piece of shrapnel in last night's air-raid. I wasn't
on duty when you came in, but the night-sister said you were quite
delirious--though you seem ever so much better this morning, don't you?
I'll take your temperature, and after you've had some breakfast I'll put
a new dressing on your wound.'
She was just going to insert the thermometer between his lips, when he
stopped her with his hand. 'Nurse,' he said, 'why was I brought
here--among soldiers?'
'Because every hospital is filled to overflowing. The casualties are so
heavy just now.' Her voice was still kind, but there was a look of
resentment in her eyes at his question.
'Please don't misunderstand me,' said Selwyn wearily. 'It is only the
feeling that I have no right here. This cot should be for a soldier, and
I'm a civilian. I'm an American, and--and if you only knew'----
'Just a minute, now, until we get this temperature, and then you can tell
me all about it.'
With his lips silenced, but his doubts by no means so, he watched her
move down the ward in commencement of the countless duties of her day.
She was a woman of thirty-three or thirty-four years, still young, and
possessed of a womanliness that softened her whole appearance with a
tranquil restfulness. But beneath her eyes and in the texture of the
skin faint wrinkles were showing, thinly pencilled protests against
overwork, that no treatment could ever eradicate. On the red collar of
her uniform was a badge which told that she had gone to France with the
first little army of Regulars in 1914.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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