THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



enough to let me do it without knock- 

 out drops — / So I says, 'Doc, I'm your 

 man.' " 



"And he never wiggled a toe," chimes 

 in the nurse. 



"But," says Arthur, "I didn't care for 

 it much when I heard him saw." 



As I step into the corridor to go from 

 Geographic Ward No. I to Geographic 

 Ward No. 2, I take a few minutes to jot 

 down some of the things I've promised 

 to bring next time. Here are a few of 

 them : One detailed map of the American 

 front ; one small comb and mirror ; one 

 jar of jam (strawberry) ; one cheap vol- 

 ume of Shakespeare (any play) ; two 

 bars of a certain kind of soap ; one good 

 lead pencil and some funny post-cards ; 

 one guide book of Paris and one nail file. 



But I've got to stop here to make way 

 for at least half a hundred soldiers to 

 pass. They are wearing bath-robes and 

 house slippers and have nothing on their 

 heads. 



"there's long-winded lizzie" 



"Some outfit for traveling," roars one. 

 They all know they are leaving, but as to 

 where they are going not one of them has 

 the faintest idea. They'll pile into the 

 waiting motor transports in the yard be- 

 low, laugh and sing their way across town 

 to a certain station, get on a train, and 

 leave it whenever and wherever they're 

 told to do' so ; for these are some of the 

 "walking cases," which must be evacuated 

 to make room for the swarms of new- 

 comers who are due tonight. They al- 

 most knock me down in their eagerness 

 for cigarettes, but in such a boyish, 

 friendly manner that I can't possibly 

 resent it. 



Some of them light up immediately, 

 while others remain to chat for a minute, 

 and still others start whistling down the 

 stairs. But everybody stops dead still 

 when there comes a terrific boom ! 



"There's long-winded Lizzie again," 

 says one. "By ginger ! I'd like to lay 

 my hands on the blankety-blank, gosh- 

 dinged, double-dyed son of a sea-cook 

 who does that dirty work. The !" 



"Help!" I cry; and in my haste to get 

 away from there I almost fall over a 

 jolly big cripple, as he sails along in his 

 "go-cart." 



In answer to the usual "What hap- 

 pened to you?" I'm told that he was a 

 gunner, trained to the minute. Only 

 trouble was that he forgot to train his 

 gun — haw, haw ! So one fine morning 

 she up and ran over his two feet and 

 crushed them flat. "And that's all there 

 is to that. Honk ! honk !" 



SERIOUSLY WOUNDED IN GEOGRAPHIC 

 WARD NO. 2 



Geographic Ward No. 2 is filled with 

 very seriously wounded. 



Entering, I make the regulation speech 

 about having Sweet Caporals, Khedives, 

 and Lucky Strikes ; also Bull Durhams 

 to roll. Unfortunately, I hadn't noticed 

 in time that the poor creature just in 

 front of me is trying not to wince as the 

 nurse inserts a drainage tube in his fresh 

 and frightful wound. His arm is off 

 just below the shoulder, but he actually 

 smiles as he says, "You see, I can't very 

 well roll my own." 5 



He seems glad to talk, and, because I 

 can think of nothing more comforting to 

 say, I finish with, "After all, it's your left 

 arm, isn't it?" At that he laughs aloud, 

 for HE had been left-handed. 



I put a few blossoms on the second 

 bed, where lies an agonized man whose 

 eye is out. I hear him whisper, "Good 

 God, help me !" I see a rosary around 

 his neck, and on the stand beside him, 

 propped against a medicine bottle, a pic- 

 ture of two little girls. The wobbly, 

 childish inscription reads : "We are pray- 

 ing for our dear papa." 



The one in bed No. 3 says the doctor 

 told him he had eighteen wounds, though 

 he himself only counted seventeen. He 

 was just under the shell when it ex- 

 ploded, and so he got most of it. "I 

 guess I'd have done better if I'd have 

 stayed at home — I don't think," smiles 

 he. "Volunteer?" I ask. "I should hope 

 I was," says he. 



The gasping, breathless one with shrap- 

 nel in his lungs doesn't like the smell of 

 hospitals and wonders if I could bring 

 him a bit of perfume. "The kind the 

 fainting ladies use, you know," he grins. 



The freckled-faced fighter next in line 

 tells me, with great sparkling eyes, that 

 the hole in his hip is bigger than his two 

 hands and offers to prove it. He is so 



