Slowly, Gilbert Beilschmidt walked through the field-hospital’s tents.
Everywhere around him, the wounded lay on the blood covered wooden tables or on red soaked sheets and the worn stretchers on the ground. Some cried loudly, some moaned agonizingly, some were silent.
Gilbert listened carefully to all of them, nonetheless.
Everywhere around him, medical staff members, men and women, were busy treating the men. Cleaning, stitching and bandaging their wounds. Giving them some water to drink. The heavy air was filled by their pitiful and disgusting noises and the smell of blood, raw meat and medicine.
Gilbert looked carefully over all of them, nonetheless.
Everywhere around him at the tables, surgeons were busy amputating legs and arms. Most of the men had spit out the wooden or cloth toggle and let their agony out through their wide opened mouth. They slewed their head there and back and kicked as much as they could, while they were fixed with leather-straps or held down by strong
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