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them have already gone to their doom, and
all we know of them are the horrors they have
witnessed and the atrocities they have
committed. Many are still alive and prisoners
of war. Others have died in our ambulances
side by side with their former foes, now their
comrades in suffering and as often as not
almost their friends. I have had some
dealings with several of these men. I have read
their note-books, I have heard from their
own lips their gruesome tales of recorded and
unrecorded horror. Those dying men told
no lies. Man speaks the truth when he is
aware that Death is listening to what he says.
Suffering has no nationality and Death
wears no uniform. There are neither friends
nor foes on “no-man’s-land,” on all men’s
land, on the borderland between life and
death, dreaded by all. Men die as best they
can. Most men fear death, all men fear
dying. All men are more or less alike when
they are about to die. What they did with
their life whilst it belonged to them may
concern the priest if he is at hand, but Death
does not care, he welcomes them all in his
own rough way, good men and bad men are
all the same to him. So they are to the
doctor. Now and then I tried to say to
myself that I disliked these dying Boches,
but I cannot honestly say I did; in fact, I
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