It was not yet dawn. Peter heard the moaning of the men as they awoke and turned in their bandages. Surgeon and assistants passed through; two of the latter remained to start up the malingerers. Machine and rapid-fire men especially were needed at the front, it was said. Four thousand men had fallen in the past three days, and this was to be the day of the most furious battle—Kohlvihr to drive a hole through the hills, this day. An early incident revealed certain facts—personal—and had a temporary numbing influence upon Mowbray. The day had risen and Samarc awakened, when a strange orderly entered the ward, and came leisurely to the cot where Peter sat:
“What have you here?”
“A shrapnel wound in the face.”
The orderly looked under the cot for the uniform, as if to determine Samarc's place and rank.
“Where's the blouse?” he asked.
“It was covered with blood,” said Peter. “They took it away.”
“What branch of the service?”
Peter was not sure—infantry possibly. He didn't care for the stranger's manner, nor to have this particular gunner of the rapid-fire pieces hurried to the field unhealed. The orderly bent suddenly, whispering.
“She told me to tell you that she wants to come, but that it isn't safe—”
...Moritz Abel looking for an interpreter would have been interested now; also the Old Man of The States. The stranger had spoken leisurely. Peter's temptation was conquered before he was half through.
“Are you sure you were to give me some message?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But I wasn't expecting anyone.”
The other regarded him keenly. Peter was well trained for that. An officer appeared in the doorway and beckoned the orderly.
“It must have been a mistake,” the latter muttered.
Peter was thinking fast. The fact remained that their meeting the night before had been noted. He was leaving for the field shortly; the harm of suspicion would fall upon her.
“I promised to call a moment this morning at the amputation house—but no one was to come for me,” he added.
“I have made a mistake,” the orderly repeated.
“...I wonder if I have?” Peter thought.
Samarc's hand came up to him, and the pull that meant he wanted to speak. Peter invariably paled before this ordeal. Not through words but sounds were the meanings tortured out.... Samarc meant to take the field. In the usual course there would be no coming back for him at nightfall, because he had “ceased to kill—”
“But must your officers know?” Peter whispered.
...The officers would know if it were the same old crew, because they knew Samarc's work. This was the substance of the answer.
“But why go?”
...They would take off the bandages to be sure that he required further hospital care. He could not endure that. The bandages must never come off.... He would rather be afield.
Peter saw the grim finality of it. Samarc wasn't changed. He meant to end it. It was not only Spenski, but the havoc under the cloths....
A young assistant surgeon at a near cot was rather too hastily laying bare the lint from a severe shoulder wound.
Exchange with Samarc had of course stopped. Peter, thinking deeply, watched with but half attention until the assistant surgeon briskly rebound the wound, and began tugging at the soldier to get on his feet. The wounded one whimpered his weakness.
“Get up!”
The order was repeated. “Into your clothes, man. Scores are already in the column with wounds worse than yours.”
The man groaned, stirred, but fell back. Peter had seen the wound—not a desperate one, but enough to lay a man up for a fortnight at home, and this could not have been more than three days old. There wasn't much chance of malingering.
“Come, come!” the young officer urged angrily.
The soldier tried to raise himself, but did not make good work of it.
“I'll get you up, damn you—”
A quick scream from the man on the cot. Peter did not know what the doctor did, but he smelled acid. All was cloudy before his eyes. He was a bit surprised a second after to feel the Russian's neck in his two hands:
“None but a beast would take from the stable a horse crippled like that,” he was saying.
The assistant was but a boy. Peter caught this before lasting damage was done. He left the place half crying, threatening to kill Mowbray later. His superior appeared. Peter smiled at him. Samarc was up, drawing on his clothes.
“A bit of bad judgment,” Peter said, not explaining whether it was his or the young doctor's.
The surgeon did not ask, but turned to the great muffled face.
“This man was from one of the rapid-fire commands, I believe?”
Peter was prevented from further glibness by a decisive nod from Samarc.
“The Fatherland will need you to-day,” the surgeon said with a peculiar significance.
To Peter's trained ear the sounds from Samarc were dangerously like, “Fatherland-hell.”
“A shrapnel splinter struck him in the mouth,” he explained. “He says he is ready to take the field.”
Samarc spoke again.
“His blouse is gone,” said Peter hastily. “I can manage for him.”
“Has he a fever?”
“I'm afraid so—a slight fever.”
The surgeon turned to the other cot. “Let this fellow sleep another day,” he said.
The soldier lying there gave Peter a look almost uncanny in its gratitude.
ward.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg