saw at once that his case was hopeless, and gave a short whistle as
you do when blowing away a thistledown, indicating that he would soon
be gone. I remember thinking that this was the German estimate of
human life.

He came to me and said, "Well, what have you got?"

I thought he referred to my wound, and said, "A shoulder wound." At
which he laughed pleasantly and said, "I am not interested in your
wound; that's the doctor's business." Then I saw what he meant; it
was souvenirs he was after. So I gave him my collar badge, and in
return he gave me a German coin, and went over to the doctor and said
something about me, for he flipped his finger toward me.

My turn came at last. The doctor examined my pay-book as well as my
wound. I had forty-five francs in it, and when he took it out, I
thought it was gone for sure. However, he carefully counted it before
me, drawing my attention to the amount, and then returned it to me.

After my wound had been examined and a tag put on me stating what
sort of treatment I was to have, I was taken away with half a dozen
others and led down a narrow stone stair to a basement. Here on the
cement floor were piles of straw, and the place was heated. The walls
were dirty and discolored. One of the few pleasant recollections
of my life in Germany has been the feeling of drowsy content that
wrapped me about when I lay down on a pile of straw in that dirty,
rat-infested basement. I forgot that I was a prisoner, that I was
badly winged, that I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired. I forgot
all about my wounded companions and the Canadian Highlander, and all
the suffering of the world, and drifted sweetly out into the wide