We went in. The prisoners were lying on stretchers in two rows. Most of
them were asleep, but one was tossing about and crying in piteous tones:

"Hab'ich noch'n Arm, oder hab'ich keinen?"

"'E's bin at it for 'ours, pore bloke. Arst 'im what 'e wants--I 'xpect
it's somethin' ter do with 'is arm what they took orf early in the
evenin'."

I asked the man what he wanted and noticed that his right arm had been
taken off at the shoulder. He was silent for a moment and looked at me
with haggard eyes. Then suddenly he wailed:

"Kamerad, sag mir doch--Comrade, tell me--is my arm still there, or is
it gone?"

"He wants to know if he's still got his arm," I said to the orderly, who
turned to the prisoner and exclaimed: "Arm bon, goot!"

"Aber ich fühl ja nichts--But I can't feel anything--for God's sake tell
me if it's still there!--Ach Gott, ach Gott, ach Gott."

He buried his face in his pillow and sobbed hysterically.

I explained to him that it had been necessary to remove his arm, but
that he would live and be well treated and see no more fighting.

He turned round and stared at me and then shouted jubilantly: