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The train draws up gently, soldiers appear at the doors, silent and patiently waiting, some with foreheads swathed in reddening bandages, others with their arms in slings, again others leaning on crutches. One could not judge of the number, as more wounded were lying on the seats. One saw only black and white and yellow faces peering anxiously forth, and one understood that these soldiers had no words to express their sufferings, they only wait "for help."

A young doctor, just commencing his life of self-sacrifice, his eyes heavy with fever, his shoulders drooping with fatigue, seeks the military doctor in charge at the station and hands him a list giving him some information, brief and military, on the wounded hundreds behind him. Some are so injured they must have instant help. Here are men who may travel further; seeking from station to station the promised assistance.

The more desperately wounded are removed on stretchers; the nuns bring cooling water to wash their fevered hands and faces; the nurses bring them food and hot coffee; kind hands replace their slings, awry; boys and girls bring them newspapers, cigarettes and candies. All wish to express their admiration and devotion to these humble defenders of France.

All along the vast platforms are rows of stretchers, each laden with its suffering humanity. One counts the men by the upturned boot soles. Alas! those wounded in the legs hang brokenly down. Here a wretched man with broken shoulder wanders toward the operating room, installed in every railway station. There a feeble comrade leans on the shoulders of a nurse as he struggles toward the doctors awaiting him.

The more seriously wounded must remain on the spot, and the medical director inspects him, as taking his number he encourages him with a few words: "Now, my brave one, you will not travel further; a look, a look at your wound, my friend, and then to a comfortable hospital." The wounded soldier touches his cap, lifts his covering and shows a dressing spotted with yellow and brown; but has the strength to say to the bearers, "Carefully, gently, my friends; I suffer much!" and he looks with misgiving on the motor car, for they are moving him again. Poor fellow, he has suffered so much.

They lift him tenderly and he disappears beneath the Red Cross ambulance, there to find a nurse who whispers "My little soldier, another moment of patience and thou wilt find thyself amidst cool sheets, far from noise and confusion. Thou shalt rest in peace, and thou shalt be well."

In the midst of this "empressement," this joy of helping, the German prisoners, wounded and far from home, are not forgotten. At the door of one of the wagons a little brown chap is leaning, silent, but with shining eyes. The odors of good, refreshing coffee and hot bread are wafted to him; but he does not make a sign. But how hungry he is! And those good comrades behind him who for so many days faced death and famine in the trenches—how they hunger! He glances behind him. Here a man lies on his back, his eyes closed. Another is gasping, with his hands clenched. Others are crouching in obscurity. How hungry they are! How the thirst burns. But one must not ask mercy of one's conquerors.

Suddenly a young doctor, with a nun at his side, appears at the window. Coffee, bread and meat are offered; it is the little brown wounded one kneeling at the window who brings to his fellows the hospitality of France.

The officers are crowded together, heads swathed in blood-stained bandages, legs and arms encircled in spotted bands, but their voices are lowered as they thank the nuns, and they squeeze themselves together to allow a freer space to the more injured companion. The newspaper brought to them tells them of the battles in which they have fought, and in the list of those fallen on the field of honor appears the name of many a cherished friend.

Oh, the brave, humble little Piou-Piou! The little infantrymen who so bravely and so enthusiastically have fought for their native soil; wounded in arm and leg, in head and thigh, in foot and hand; uncomplaining, patient and grateful, so tired and so injured, but as ready to return to their trenches, bearing all things, suffering, seeking a nameless grave, that their beloved France may remain free and intact. These are unknown, courageous Frenchmen, who on the present-day battlefields appeal to us to help, comfort and succor in this their day of tribulation.

At Rennes and the larger towns there are comforts and medical equipments impossible for our little Dinard and its hastily-installed hospitals; all the hotels and casinos have been "requisitiones" and we are doing our best to make things comfortable for those poor chaps; but we lack, alas, so much! There are no ambulances, and so all sorts of conveyances are called into use, from elegant limousines and small motor cars, down through the list of private carriages and cabs, to express carts.

It is a painful sight to see these latter, minus springs or even mattresses (which are all in use in hospitals), bumping the poor wounded over car-tracks and crossings to their destination.

At the grand casino one's heart is torn by the sight of such suffering supported so uncomplainingly. A large hall is hastily arranged with cane-bottomed chairs, in front of each a tin basin, hot water in cans (heated on a gas stove) is poured into these primitive receptacles, and ladies of the Croix Rouge kneel in front of these rough wounded men. It is hard work, sometimes, to separate the heavy army boots from the wounded feet. Some of these men have not had their boots off in two months; constantly marching to and fro over those fields and through the mud, ready at any moment to spring to arms to defend us and our homes. It is the least we can do, to help their pain now.

The blood has soaked through the worn-out socks, and the whole mass is impregnated with dirt, blood, etc.; but how grateful they are, these poilus, to have their wounds dressed, their torn, dirty uniforms removed, and to find themselves in comfortable beds, a soothing drink of beef tea, with a dash of brandy held to their lips, and a soft pillow behind their weary heads. One boy said to me, as we finally got him in bed: "Madam, one goes gladly to fight for la France, but now, I must rest awhile. With such kind ladies to aid me, I know I shall soon gain strength enough to return to show those Boches." What la Jeunesse FranÇaise is willing to bear for France!

October, 1914