The Bridgeport evening farmer. [volume] (Bridgeport, Conn.) 1866-1917, 1916-11-23

scending as slowly as possible for it
brutalizes one to come down fast
| ones ears and appreciation "of dis
| lance, you know.)
How charming the little creek
looked in the meadow with groups of
trees and shrubs so daintily arrang-
| ed, and all inimitably green. A roar
of the motor, a, tour Of the terrain,
and two or three hundred metres to
| get the wind, and I scooped on to the
field
Here, Of course, we see war at it's
best. But little more than a month
after this letter was written (June "a
last) Chapman was killed in mid-air
while in combat with German airmen
who were attacking Norman Prince
near Verdun.
Chapman fell within the German
lines. Recently Norman Prince him
self has been killed.
Unloading the Wounded.
So far it has been of the men who
fought. But they alone are not rep
resepted in the volume. There are
the writings Of the many who 1abored
by day and by night in the hospitals
some at the front, others in Paris and
further to the rear-members Of the
staff of the American Ambulance hos
pital or of the Harvard surgical units
And then there are the ambulance
drivers, who have played such impor-
tant roles in the great struggle.
Dr.. Harvey Cushing, Mosseley pro-
lessor of surgery gale, '91), headed
the first Harvard unit to take up it's
work in the American ambulance
headquarters. His letters, and those
of his associates, are particularly in
teresting.
He pictures, in one Of them, the ar
rival Of a trainload of wounded in
Paris. The train had come in at mid
day, an unusual thing, for the French
authorities have managed to bring
back the sufferers at night, so that
Paris might not see too much of the
horror of it ALL
ut was a very impressive sight A
large, high building, once freight
shed, presume, possibly ESQ feet
long, has been transformed for the
present purpose. and the train runs
in on a single track behind a. Curtain
ed-off side Of the building-curtain-
ed off by a heavy black, huge canvas
curtain, which opens at one place
through which the wounded success
s1vely come-frst the petits blesses,
on foot, then the men in chairs, then
the grande bleSses, on stretchers
The impressive thing about it is
that all is so quiet-people talk in
low voices-there is no hurry. no
shouting, no gesticulation, no giving
of Notwithstanding Latin about it
whatsoever. And the line of men.
tired, grimy, muddy, stolid, uncom- |
planning, bloody; it would make YOU |
weep.
Through the opening in the cur
tain through which you could see one
of the cars of the train, they SLOWLY
emerged, one by one, cast a dull look
around, saw where they were to 60
then doggedly went, one after the |
other, each hanging on to his little |,
Dunoie or possessions, many of them |
Arabs, though for the most part
downright French types
'"Those with legs to walk on had
heads or bodies or arms in HANDBAGS !
or sings, to hurriedly apply which
day before yesterday uniforms and
sleeves had been ruthlessly slit open. |
mot murmur-not grunt-
hmp1ng, shutting, hobbling-in all |
kinds of bedraggled uniforms"
Still Smoked His Pipe.
AAu IAAO "OuAuo, LASy UGIy OcSCr1D-
ton.
Here you see boy of IS, wrote
George Benet, M. D., '13, one Of the !
Unit" with his lower jaw, floor of |
mouth, and half his tongue blown |
away. He lives, but for what?
Another man of "a with both legs
gone at the thighs, and his right arm
crippled for life.
"And of course the pitiful blind.
They, to me. are the worst And the
frightful and almost inevitable in
fections.
" "Yor see, the common history is
this: Shot at a. M, March 3D. Very
cold night. Raining. Fell IN mud
and not found until p. m. the next
day No bath for three months. I'm
derwear changed seven weeks ago.
For you can't be fastidious in the
trenches; but if you are a Frenchman
you are a fighting man the world
can't beat.
when asked what he did until
found, the aforementioned chap said:
Smoked my peep He had the bone
of his thigh sticking out in the mud
and smoked his peep"
List of Over 400,
These are just bits from the stories
Of some of the 81 men whose writings
are preserved in this volume. Almost