I went to the
hospital, and when I was able I was moved in an ambulance to a U.S. Army
Base hospital far removed from the firing line. I was at the base
hospital a month, and spent most of the time in the sunshine trying to
get rid of the heavy bronchial condition that had fastened itself to me.
The hospital was full--but not with Americans. I was surrounded by
fellows from all the allied nations, and had the chance to talk with
them. They're a great lot, and anybody who has any doubt about whether
we are going to win this war needs only a few minutes' conversation with
some of the chaps that have been over there for years. You bet we're
going to win--there isn't a thought of anything else but victory.
[Sidenote: Orders to go home.]
At the end of my month at the base hospital it was decided that I was
not fit for the firing line. Uncle Sam is mighty good to his fellows--he
does not believe in placing them under unnecessary risks, and when the
doctors said that my bronchial condition was practically chronic, and
the life on the firing line would only aggravate it, I got my orders to
go home and take up service in a climate where there was less chance of
my becoming a liability and where there was just as much work for me to
do as in France, though of a different nature.
It was a disappointment, but I'm glad to think that I had those six days
on the firing line, and proud to think that I was with the first batch
of Americans to see service in the fight against autocracy.
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