A callous, hardened, dulled class of men, absolutely lacking in sentiment, yet doing a noble and heroic work. Who could do their work without becoming callous—or insane? We curse them often when they put a man in the car upside down or drop him, but we forget that when the infantry goes _en repos_, the _brancardiers_ stay at their posts, going out into No Man’s Land every hour to bring in a countryman or an enemy. When, standing by the car at P 3, I see two _brancardiers_ carrying a man up from the _abri_ and, after noticing that both his arms are broken, one in two places, that both legs are broken, that a bloody bandage covers his chest, and that the white band around his head is staining red, I see them drop him when a shell screams overhead, I curse them. But I forget that for the past two nights, with their _abri_ filled with chlorine gas, these same men have toiled faithfully in suffocating gasmasks, bringing in the wounded, caring for them, and loading them on our cars. I forget that these men have probably not had an hour’s consecutive sleep for weeks and that it may be weeks before they have again; that it is months since they last saw a dry foot of ground, or felt that for a moment they were free of the ever present expectation of sudden death. It is something to remember, and it is to wonder rather how they do these things at all than why they seem at times a little careless or a bit tired. Would the _brancardier_ tell you this? When he sees you he asks after your comrades. He takes you in and gives you a cigarette and some _Pinard_ in a battered cup, and tries to find you a place to rest, all the time telling you cheerful stories and amusing incidents. The Staff is the brains of the army; Aviation, the eyes; the Artillery, the voice; the Infantry and Cavalry, the arms; the Engineers, the hands; the Transportation, the legs; the People behind it, the body; but the _Brancardier_ is the soul. * * * * * THERE are sounds outside of a klaxon being worked vigorously. However, we have several dozing Frenchmen inside the _abri_ who are making similar noises, so nothing dawns upon our sleepy senses for some minutes while the owner of the klaxon searches for the _abri_. This is dangerous business, because on all sides are barbed wire, shell-holes, and other _abris_. Also, as this one is located in the corner of a graveyard, there is danger that the searcher will wander on and uproot a dozen or more wooden crosses in the search. At last he discovers the right one by falling down the pit we called stairs before the rain set in. A violent monologue arouses us from our dozing comfortlessness, and we learn that a car is wanted at P 2. I am next on call, so I slowly and painfully unwind myself from a support and two pairs of legs, and, with the man who rides with me, make my way into the outer darkness.