never considered caring for wounded, and the wounded poured in. I
saw a motor-car with a wounded man stop at a crowded corner, in
the midst of refugees and soldiers; a doctor was leaning over him,
and he died whilst the car waited.

But the journalists were saying that stories of wounded men were
likewise stale. So they were, for Europe was red with wounded. Train
after train brought in its load from the front, and Calais tried to care
for them. At least, it had buildings which would give shelter from
the rain. On the floor of a railway freight shed the wounded lay in
long rows, with just enough space between them to make an alley.
Those in the row against one of the walls were German prisoners.
Their green uniforms melted into the stone of the wall and did not
show the mud stains. Two slightly wounded had their heads together
whispering. They were helplessly tired, though not as tired as most
of the others, those two stalwart young men; but they seemed to be
relieved, almost happy. It did not matter what happened to them, now,
so long as they could rest.

Next to them a German was dying, and others badly hit were glassy-
eyed in their fatigue and exhaustion. This was the word, exhaustion,
for all the wounded.

They had not the strength for passion or emotion. The fuel for those
fires was in ashes. All they wanted in this world was to lie quiet; and
some fell asleep not knowing or caring probably whether they were in
Germany or in France. In the other rows, in contrast with this
chameleon, baffling green, were the red trousers of the French and
the dark blue of the Belgian uniforms, sharing the democracy of
exhaustion with their foe.