and the officer in charge--all on the way to the working beavers on top
of the conquered hill.

Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of
slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army
wagons--on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart
bled for them. And the way those men took their suffering! Sometimes the
jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would
pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one
ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "Grit your teeth," said
another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly--"Grit your teeth; there's
others that's hurt worse'n you." The Sergeant lifted his head, and a
bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not
another sound. But it was the slightly hurt--the men shot in the leg or
arm--who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the
hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took the one who was groaning. He
had a mere scratch on one leg. Another was dressed, and while the third
sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before
the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn.

"Where are you hurt?"

The man pointed to his left side.

"Through?"

"Yes, sir."

That day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with
half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. On