He had been literally sprinkled--he
called it "interlarded"--with shrapnel.
"Wounded in seventeen places!" cried Clerambault.
"I have only a dozen left," said the man.
"Did they cure the others?"
"No, they cut my legs off." Clerambault was so shocked that he almost
forgot the object of his visit. Great Heaven! What agonies! Our
sufferings, in comparison, are a drop in the ocean.... He put his
hand over the rough one, and pressed it. The calm grey eyes took in
Clerambault from his feet to the crape on his hat.
"You have lost someone?"
"Yes," said Clerambault, pulling himself together, "you must have
known Sergeant Clerambault?"
"Surely," said the man, "I knew him."
"He was my son."
The grey eyes softened.
"Ah, Sir! I _am_ sorry for you. I should think I did know him, poor
little chap! We were together for nearly a year, and a year like that
counts, I can tell you! Day after day, we were like moles burrowing in
the same hole.... We had our share of trouble."
"Did he suffer much?"
"Well, Sir, it _was_ pretty bad sometimes; hard on the boy, just at
the first. You see he wasn't used to it, like us."
"You come from the country?"
"I was labourer on a farm. You have to live with the beasts, and you
get to be like 'em. But it is the truth I tell you now, Sir, that men
do treat each other worse than the beasts.
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