The wád opens ön the hospital sky is blue and the sun is shining.
London, 1 garters. Tite roses are out. The The ret in the neat white beds are shaved. They have clean liner Re The Dunkirk beaches are many miles away.
So far, there is nò heed to shelter against a rock or under a tree when a plane drones overhead. And yet, these men look different from the men in the other wards.
Here, in this peácéfül ward, are wounded French soldiers. They come from every department in France; they represent every French tyre, Here is a tall Norman farmer, fait-haired and blue-eyed, Here is a teller, shorí and swarthy, fiom a branch of thë Credit Lyonnaise. at Bordeaux. Here is a French soldier from Algiers, with fhiée or four lucky charms pintled to his blue jacket. And here, sitting round the bed of one of their comrades, are four men who were once householders in Dunkirk—when Dunkirk was a town, They were Hot ffiend$ then. They did not even know óne another, but they have things in common now. They have all fought for France, and they do not know where their wives and children are.
"Kind ladies come along and ask me whether I would like pencils and writing paper, I write. Yes. But where do I send my letters?" one of the soldiers said.
No matter how badly wounded the English soldiers are, they are at least home.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.