You twist yourself so that you can get a
glimpse of the flying country. It's green, undisturbed, unmarred by
shells--there are even cows!
At the Base Hospital to which I went there was a man who performed
miracles. He was a naturalised American citizen, but an Armenian by
birth. He gave people new faces.
The first morning an officer came in to visit a friend; his face was
entirely swathed in bandages, with gaps left for his breathing and his
eyes. He had been like that for two years, and looked like a
leper. When he spoke he made hollow noises. His nose and lower jaw had
been torn away by an exploding shell. Little by little, with infinite
skill, by the grafting of bone and flesh, his face was being built
up. Could any surgery be more merciful?
In the days that followed I saw several of these masked men. The worst
cases were not allowed to walk about. The ones I saw were invariably
dressed with the most scrupulous care in the smartest uniforms, Sam
Browns polished and buttons shining. They had hope, and took a pride
in themselves--a splendid sign! Perhaps you ask why the face-cases
should be kept in France. I was not told, but I can guess--because
they dread going back to England to their girls until they've got rid
of their disfigurements. So for two years through their bandages they
watch the train pull out for Blighty, while the damage which was done
them in the fragment of a second is repaired.
At a Base Hospital you see something which you don't see at a Casualty
Station--sisters, mothers, sweethearts and wives sitting beside the
beds.
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