CHAPTER 40The boy was unconscious. He had lost so much blood from a body already undersized and malnourished that he looked to be made only of white dust which would blow away if I breathed on him too hard. On top of that the wound was infected.
Slowly, I took my hand from his forehead and lifted my gaze to his mother, gaunt, haggard, old before she had reached her prime. I swallowed.
I said, “Forgive me. There’s nothing I can do for him.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I knew he was dead as soon as they brought him home... It’s his father can’t give up hoping — he’s our only son, you see, and I doubt there’ll be more now. Who would bring a child into this anyhow? Only it’s hard to lose one already here...”
In Flanders, as well as here at Bourne, I had seen many mothers lose their sons. One
