This, it appears, is his little joke--he
will never beat anyone again, since he lost both his arms when his
trench was blown up by a land mine.
It was at Triancourt that I first saw in operation the motor-cars that
had been sent out fitted with bath tubs for the troops, and also a very
fine car fitted up by the London Committee of the French Red Cross as a
moving dental hospital.
I regret to add that a _poilu_ near by disrespectfully referred to it as
"another of the horrors of war," adding that in times of peace there
was some kind of personal liberty, where as now "a man could not have
toothache without being forced to have it ended, and that there was no
possibility of escaping a dentist who hunted you down by motor."
It was suggested that, as I had had a touch of toothache the night
before, I might take my place in the chair and give an example of
British pluck to the assembled _poilus_. I hastened to impress on the
surgeon that I hated notoriety and would prefer to remain modestly in
the background. I even pushed aside with scorn the proffered bribe of
six "boche" buttons, assuring the man that "I would keep my toothache as
a souvenir."
At one of the hospitals, beside the bed of a dying man, sat a little old
man writing letters. They told me that before the war he had owned the
most flourishing wine-shop in the village. He had fled before the
approach of the German troops, but later returned to his village and
installed himself in the hospital as scribe.
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