As he hadn’t died in the ambulance, coming from thePoste de Secours, the surgeons concluded that they would give him another chance, and risk it on the operating table. He was nearly dead, anyway, so it didn’t much matter, although the chance they proposed to give him wasn’t even a fighting chance—it was just one in a thousand, some of them put it at one in ten thousand. Accordingly, they cut his clothes off in theSalle d’Attente, and carried him, very dirty and naked, to the operating room. Here they found that his ten-thousandth chance would be diminished if they gave him a general anæsthetic, so they dispensed with chloroform and gave him spinal anæsthesia,by injecting something into his spinal canal, between two of the low vertebræ. This completely relieved him of pain, but made him talkative, and when they saw he was conscious like that, it was decided to hold a sheet across the middle of him, so that he could not see what was going on, on the other side of the sheet, below his waist.
The temperature in the operating room was stifling hot, and the sweat poured in drops from the brows of the surgeons, so that it took an orderly, with a piece of gauze, to swab them constantly. However, for all the heat, the man was stone cold and ashen grey, and his nostrils were pinched and dilated, while his breath came in gasps, forty to the minute. Yet, as I say, he was talkative, and his stream of little, vapid remarks, at his end of the sheet, did much to drown the clicking and snapping of clamps on the other side of it, where thesurgeons were working to give him his one chance.
A nurse held the sheet on one side of the table, and a priest-orderly held it at the other, and at his head stood a doctor, and theDirectriceand another nurse, answering the string of vapid remarks and trying to sooth him. And three feet farther along, hidden from him and the little clustering company of people trying to distract his attention, stood the two surgeons, and the two young students, and just the tops of their hair could be seen over the edge of the sheet. They whispered a little from time to time, and worked very rapidly, and there was quite animated talking when the bone saw began to rasp.
The man babbled of his home, and of his wife. He said he wanted to see her again, very much. And the priest-orderly, who wanted to drop his end of the sheet and administer the last Sacrament at once, grewvery nervous and uneasy. So the man rambled on, gasping, and they replied to him in soothing manner, and told him that there was a chance that he might see her again. So he talked about her incessantly, and with affection, and his whispered words and the cheery replies quite drowned out the clicking and the snapping of the clamps. After a short while, however, his remarks grew less coherent, and he seemed to find himself back in the trenches, telephoning. He tried hard to telephone, he tried hard to get the connection. The wires seemed to be cut, however, and he grew puzzled, and knit his brows and swore, and tried again and again, over and over. He had something to say over the telephone, the trench communication wire, and his mind wandered, and he tried very hard, in his wandering mind, to get the connection. A shell had cut the line evidently. He grew annoyed and restless, and gazed anxiously and perplexedlyat the white sheet, held so steadily across his middle. From the waist down he could not move, so all his restlessness took place on the upper side of the sheet, and he was unaware of what was going on on the other side of it, and so failed to hear the incessant rattle of clamps and the subdued whispers from the other side.
He struggled hard to get the connection, in his mind, over the telephone. The wires seemed to be cut, and he cried out in anxiety and distress. Then he grew more and more feeble, and gasped more and more, and became almost inarticulate, in his efforts. He was distressed. But suddenly he got it. He screamed out very loud, relieved, satisfied, triumphant, startling them all.
“Ça y est, maintenant! Ça y est! C'est le bon Dieu à l’appareil!”(All right now! All right! It is the good God at the telephone!)
A drop of blood spotted the sheet, a suddenvivid drop which spread rapidly, coming through. The surgeon raised himself.
“Finished here!” he exclaimed with satisfaction.
“Finished here,” repeated theDirectrice.
Paris,26 June, 1916.
As a person, Grammont amounted to very little. In private life, before the war broke out, he had been an acrobat in the streets of Paris, and after that he became a hotel boy in some little fifth-rate hotel over behind the Gare St. Lazare. That had proved his undoing, for even the fifth-rate French travelling salesmen and sharpers and adventurers who patronized the hotel had money enough for him to steal. He stole a little, favoured by his position asgarçon d’hôtel, and the theft had landed him, not in jail, but in theBataillon d’Afrique. He had served in that for two years, doing his military service in theBataillon d’Afriqueinstead of jail, while working off his five year sentence, and then war being declared,his regiment was transferred from Morocco to France, to Flanders, to the front line trenches, and in course of time he arrived one day at the hospital with a piece of shell in his spleen.
He was pretty ill when brought in, and if he had died promptly, as he should have done, it would have been better. But it happened at that time that there was a surgeon connected with the hospital who was bent on making a reputation for himself, and this consisted in trying to prolong the lives of wounded men who ought normally and naturally to have died. So this surgeon worked hard to save Grammont, and certainly succeeded in prolonging his life, and in prolonging his suffering, over a very considerable portion of time. He worked hard over him, and he used on him everything he could think of, everything that money could buy. Every time he had a new idea as to treatment, no matter how costly itmight be, he mentioned it to theDirectrice, who sent to Paris and got it. All the while Grammont remained in bed, in very great agony, the surgeon making copious notes on the case, noting that under such and such circumstances, under conditions such as the following, such and such remedies and treatment proved futile and valueless. Grammont had a hole in his abdomen, when he entered, about an inch long. After about a month, this hole was scientifically increased to a foot in length, rubber drains stuck out in all directions, and went inwards as well, pretty deep, and his pain was enhanced a hundredfold, while his chances of recovery were not bright. But Grammont had a good constitution, and the surgeon worked hard over him, for if he got well, it would be a wonderful case, and the surgeon’s reputation would benefit. Grammont bore it all very patiently, and did not ask to be allowed to die, as many of them did, for since he wasof theBataillon d’Afrique, such a request would be equivalent to asking for a remission of sentence—a sentence which the courts averred he justly deserved and merited. They took no account of the fact that his ethics were those of a wandering juggler, turning somersaults on a carpet at the publicfêtesof Paris, and had been polished off by contact with the men and women he had encountered in his capacity ofgarçon d’hôtel, in a fifth-rate hotel near Montmartre. On the contrary, they rather expected of him the decencies and moralities that come from careful nurture, and these not being forthcoming, they had sent him to theBataillon d’Afrique, where his eccentricities would be of no danger to the public.
So Grammont continued to suffer, over a period of several long months, and he was sufficiently cynical, owing to his short experience of life, to realize that the surgeon, who worked over him so constantly and solicitously,was not solely and entirely disinterested in his efforts to make him well. Grammont had no life to return to, that was the trouble. Everyone knew it. The surgeon knew it, and the orderlies knew it, and his comrades in the adjoining beds knew it—he had absolutely no future before him, and there was not much sense in trying to make him well enough to return to Paris, a hopeless cripple. He lay in hospital for several months, suffering greatly, but greatly patient. During that time, he received no letters, for there was no one to write to him. He was anapache, he belonged to a criminal regiment, and he had no family anyhow, and his few friends, tattooed all over the body like himself, were also members of the same regiment, and as such, unable to do much for him in civil life after the war. Such it is to be ajoyeux, to belong to a regiment of criminals, and to have no family to speak of.
Grammont knew that it would be betterfor him to die, but he did not like to protest against this painful prolonging of his life. He was pretty well sick of life, but he had to submit to the kind treatment meted out to him, to twist his mouth into a wry smile when theDirectriceasked him each day if he was not better, and to accept without wincing all the newest devices that the surgeon discovered for him. There was some sense in saving other people’s lives, but there was no sense in saving his. But the surgeon, who was working for a reputation, worked hand in hand with theDirectricewho wanted her hospital to make a reputation for saving the lives of thegrands blessés. Grammont was the victim of circumstances, as usual, but it was all in his understanding of life, this being caught up in the ambitions of others, so he had to submit.
After about three months of torture, during which time he grew weaker and smelled worse every day, it finally dawned on thenurse that perhaps this life-saving business was not wholly desirable. If he got “well,” in the mildest acceptation of the term, he would be pretty well disabled, and useless and good for nothing. And if he was never going to get well, for which the prospects seemed bright enough, why force him along through more weeks of suffering, just to try out new remedies? Society did not want him, and he had no place in it. Besides, he had done his share, in the trenches, in protecting its best traditions.
Then they all began to notice, suddenly, that in bed Grammont was displaying rather nice qualities, such as you would not expect from ajoyeux, a social outcast. He appeared to be extremely patient, and while his face twisted up into knots of pain, most of the time, he did not cry out and disturb the ward as he might have done. This was nice and considerate, and other good traits were discovered too. He was not a nuisance, he wasnot exacting, he did not demand unreasonable things, or refuse to submit to unreasonable things, when these were demanded of him. In fact, he seemed to accept his pain as God-given, and with a fatalism which in some ways was rather admirable. He could not help smelling like that, for he was full of rubber drains and of gauze drains, and if the doctor was too busy to dress his wounds that day, and so put him off till the next, it was not his fault for smelling so vilely. He did not raise any disturbance, nor make any complaint, on certain days when he seemed to be neglected. Any extra discomfort that he was obliged to bear, he bore stoically. Altogether, after some four months of this, it was discovered that Grammont had rather a remarkable character, a character which merited some sort of recognition. He seemed to have rather heroic qualities of endurance, of bravery, of discipline. Nor were they the heroic qualities that suddenly developin a moment of exaltation, but on the contrary, they were developed by months of extreme agony, of extreme bodily pain. He could have been so disagreeable, had he chosen. And as he cared so little to have his life saved, his goodness could not have been due to that. It seemed that he was merely very decent, very considerate of others, and wanted to give as little trouble as he could, no matter what took place. Only he got thinner and weaker, and more and more gentle, and at last after five months of this, theDirectricewas touched by his conduct and suggested that here was a case of heroism as well worthy of theCroix de Guerreas were the more spectacular movements on the battlefield. It took a few weeks longer, of gentle suggestion on her part, to convey this impression to the General, but at last the General entered into correspondence with the officers of the regiment to which Grammont belonged, and it thentranspired that as a soldier Grammont had displayed the same qualities of consideration for others and of discipline, that he was now displaying in a hospital bed. Finally one day, the news came that Grammont was to be decorated. Everyone else in the ward, who deserved it, had been decorated long ago, naturally, for they had not belonged to theBataillon d’Afrique. Their services had been recognized long ago. Now, however, after these many months of suffering, Grammont was to receive theCroix de Guerre. He was nearly dead by this time. When told the news, he smiled faintly. He did not seem to care. It seemed to make very little impression upon him. Yet it should have made an impression, for he was a convicted criminal, and it was a condescension that he should be so honoured at all. He had somehow won this honour, this token of forgiveness, by suffering so long, so uncomplainingly. However, a long delay tookplace, although finally his papers came, his citation, in which he was cited in the orders of the regiment as having done a very brave deed, under fire. He smiled a little at that. It had taken place so long ago, this time when he had done the deed, received the wound that kept him suffering so long. It seemed so little worth while to acknowledge it now, after all these months, when he was just ready to leave.
Then more delay took place, and Grammont got weaker, and the orderlies said among themselves that if the General was ever going to decorate this man, that he had better hurry up. However, so long a time had passed that it did not much matter. Grammont was pleased with his citation. It seemed to make it all right for him, somehow. It seemed to give him standing among his fellow patients. The hideous tattoo marks on his arms and legs, chest and back, which proclaimed him anapache, whichshowed him such every time his wound was dressed, were about to be overlaid with a decoration for bravery upon the field of battle. But still the General did not come. Grammont grew very weak and feeble and his patience became exhausted. He held on as long as he could. So he died finally, after a long pull, just twenty minutes before the General arrived with his medals.
Paris,27 June, 1916.
At the intersection of the rue du Bac and the Boulevard St. Germain rises the statue of Claude Chappe, rising like a rock in the midst of the stream of traffic, and like a rock splitting the stream and diverting it into currents which flow east and west, north and south, smoothly and without collision. In guiding the stream of traffic and directing its orderly flow, the statue of Claude Chappe is greatly assisted by the presence of anagent de police, with a picturesque cape and a picturesque sword, and who controls the flow of vehicles with as much precision as a London policeman, although there are those who profess that a London policeman is the only one who understands the business. Before the war,when the omnibuses ran, theagent de policewas always on duty; since the war, when the Paris omnibuses are all at the Front, carrying meat to the soldiers, there are certain times during the day when the whole responsibility for traffic regulation falls upon the statue of Claude Chappe. It was at one of these times, when Claude Chappe was standing head in air as usual, and failed to regard the comings and goings of the street, that this incident occurred.
Down on the Quai, an officer of the French army stepped into a little victoria, a shabby littlevoiture de place, which trotted him up the rue du Bac and then essayed to take him along the Boulevard St. Germain to theMinistère de la Guerre. Coming along the boulevard in the opposite direction, was a little lad of fifteen, bending low over the handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon, the box of which contained enough kilos to have taxed a strong man or an old horse.Men are scarce in Paris, however, and the little delivery boy, who could not possibly have been available for the army for another three years, was doing a man’s work, or a horse’s work, as you please. The French are a thrifty race, and the possibilities being that the war will all be over before that time, it mattered little whether this particular boy developed a hernia, or tuberculosis, or any other malady which might unfit him for future military service. At present he was earning money for hispatron, which was all that really mattered. So the little boy on the tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the horse of the shabby victoria, conveying the French officer, and theagent de policewas absent, and the statue of Claude Chappe stood, as usual, head in air.
Quite amêléeensued. The old horse, which should long ago have been in a butcher’s shop, avoided the tricycle, with true French thrift, but stepped squarely upon theface of the little boy sprawling under its hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the fingers of the lad’s right hand. War itself could not have been more disastrous. The youth rose to his feet, screaming. The cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the officer in the little carriage leaned back and twirled the ends of his neat moustache. Theagent de police, who should have been on duty at the statue, arrived hastily from a nearby café. He always took two hours off for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he was obliged on this occasion to cut his lunch hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone was frightfully annoyed, but no one was more annoyed than the officer in the cab, on his way to the Minister of War.
He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat imperturbable, one arm lying negligently along the back of the seat, the fingers of the other hand caressing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes rolledupwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which was not, at that moment, flying over Paris. The cabby got down from his seat, and with much vociferation called upon the officer to witness that it was not his fault. The crowd, who had not witnessed the accident, crowded round the policeman, giving testimony to what they had not seen. The sobbing boy was led into a chemist’s. Still the people did not disperse. They pressed round the cab, and began shouting to the disinterested officer. The officer who cared not where the old horse had stepped. The officer who continued to loll back against the shabby cushions, to look upward at the sky, to remain indifferent to the taximeter, which skipped briskly from eighty-five centimes to ninety-five centimes, and continued ticking on. Women crowded round the cab, regarding its occupant. Was this one who commanded their sons at the Front, who had therefore seen so much, been through somuch, that the sight of a little boy stamped on meant nothing to him? Had he seen so much sufferingen grosthat it meant nothing to himen detail? Or was this his attitude to all suffering? Was this the Nation’s attitude to the suffering of their sons? Or was this officer one who had never been to the Front, anembusqué, one of the protected ones, who occupied soft snaps in the rear, safe places from which to draw their pay? The crowd increased every minute. They speculated volubly. They surrounded the cab, voicing their speculations. They finally became so unbearable that the officer’s boredom vanished. His annoyance became such, his impatience at the delay became such that he slid down from the shabby cushions, and without paying his fare, disappeared in the direction of theMinistère de la Guerre.
A Selection from theCatalogue ofG. P. PUTNAM’S SONSComplete Catalogue senton application
The Night ComethByPaul BourgetTranslated by Frederic Lees12°. $1.35Perhaps the most important work of imagination yet written under the influence of the war. A French military hospital is the scene of the story, and its chief characters are a famous Paris surgeon and a young wounded officer, whose fervent Catholic piety is in sharp contrast with the doctor’s philosophic materialism. Death threatens both, and their opposing theories with regard to it are displayed in their relation to a drama of the most intense human passion.G. P. Putnam’s SonsNew YorkLondon
12°. $1.35
Perhaps the most important work of imagination yet written under the influence of the war. A French military hospital is the scene of the story, and its chief characters are a famous Paris surgeon and a young wounded officer, whose fervent Catholic piety is in sharp contrast with the doctor’s philosophic materialism. Death threatens both, and their opposing theories with regard to it are displayed in their relation to a drama of the most intense human passion.
Halt!Who’s There?By the Author of“Aunt Sarah and the War”75 cents net. Postage additionalA volume comparable toAunt Sarah and the Warfrom the pen of the author of that book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the cases recorded are those of men who, though wounded in body, are spiritually whole. It is the ideals of England,—the essential England that, when the hour strikes, is all courage—that manifest themselves throughout. And be it said that it is an epitome not only of the spirit of England but of the United Kingdom, with the emphasis on the united. There is a fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy running through the book, and much of poignancy in the personal dramas glimpsed through its pages.G. P. Putnam’s SonsNew YorkLondon
75 cents net. Postage additional
A volume comparable toAunt Sarah and the Warfrom the pen of the author of that book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the cases recorded are those of men who, though wounded in body, are spiritually whole. It is the ideals of England,—the essential England that, when the hour strikes, is all courage—that manifest themselves throughout. And be it said that it is an epitome not only of the spirit of England but of the United Kingdom, with the emphasis on the united. There is a fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy running through the book, and much of poignancy in the personal dramas glimpsed through its pages.
A TALL SHIPON OTHER NAVAL OCCASIONSBY BARTIMEUS12°. PICTURE WRAPPER. $1.00Tales descriptive of life in the British Navy under stress of war-time conditions—the life of the officers’ mess, and the stoke-hole—the grime as well as the glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of parting, of the strain of long waiting for the enemy, of sinking ships and struggles in the waves—and also of the bright side that not even war can extinguish.G. P. PUTNAM’S SONSNEW YORKLONDON
12°. PICTURE WRAPPER. $1.00
Tales descriptive of life in the British Navy under stress of war-time conditions—the life of the officers’ mess, and the stoke-hole—the grime as well as the glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of parting, of the strain of long waiting for the enemy, of sinking ships and struggles in the waves—and also of the bright side that not even war can extinguish.
News fromSomewhereByJames MilneAuthor of “The Romance of a Pro-Consul,” etc.12°. $1.50 net. Frontispiece“Many things seen, heard, and thought during travels at home, on sea and oversea, in the war-time which we call ‘Armageddon.’ It is a chronicle of war impressions gathered during travel, near and far, on its edges red and jagged.”“This indeed is a book of the war but it is not like the others. There is in it nothing that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must be in nearly every other volume that is wrought about Armageddon. There is sadness in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is an immensity of pathos. There is much that is beautiful. And all of it is true.”—The Daily Telegraph.“Great in spirit ... a book that will surely outlive the war.”—The Graphic.G. P. Putnam’s SonsNew YorkLondon
12°. $1.50 net. Frontispiece
“Many things seen, heard, and thought during travels at home, on sea and oversea, in the war-time which we call ‘Armageddon.’ It is a chronicle of war impressions gathered during travel, near and far, on its edges red and jagged.”
“This indeed is a book of the war but it is not like the others. There is in it nothing that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must be in nearly every other volume that is wrought about Armageddon. There is sadness in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is an immensity of pathos. There is much that is beautiful. And all of it is true.”—The Daily Telegraph.
“Great in spirit ... a book that will surely outlive the war.”—The Graphic.