If his
wound leaves no serious traces, he rejoices to live again as he did
before; if it has deprived him of the use of his limbs or of some
necessary organ, he consoles himself by the thought that the War is over
for him and that soon he will take his place at home. His infirmities,
which perhaps will weigh more heavily upon him later, he feels less
here, where they are the normal thing and where it is the exception to
appear intact.
It is a rest for him not to hear the voice of the cannon. And he likes
the moral peace with which the wise kindness of the doctors, the
devotion of the nurses, the friendship of the chaplain, surround him; he
especially enjoys the many letters he receives from his family, and
those which he slowly writes himself, or dictates to an amiable
neighbor. Often he has friends and relatives in the neighborhood who
come to see him, but what he likes best of all is the visit from his
family, his mother, father, wife, his young children.
[Sidenote: A dying man is decorated.]
[Sidenote: A legacy of honor for his family.]
Another joy in the life of our wounded is the announcement and then the
presentation of his decoration. Once, however, I saw the Cross of Honor
received with no sign of satisfaction at all, but that was because it
came too late, and its recipient, one of my friends, a brave officer,
was about to receive another recompense in heaven. It was very affecting
to see the decoration laid on that already gasping breast, without any
consciousness on the part of the poor hero.
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