The Last Time I Saw ParisThe Last Time I Saw Paris
The sounds of gunfire and falling shells had started to fade for the evening, but the line of wounded coming in and going out, either patched as best as they could be or dead, seemed almost endless. The doctor was tired. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist so as not to smear blood across his face and tried to recall the last time he had gotten more then a few forced hours of sleep. He had lost his watch a week ago anyway. It was cold in Russia. He did not like sleeping in the cold; for fear he would not awake in the morning.
One invalid out, another coming in. The two stretcher-bearers brought the wounded man suspended between them over to the doctor.
"Friedrichs..." the doctor barked to the head stretcher-bearer, "put him down, hurry."
The doctor stood poised and waiting as he took up the instrument of his orchestra, a battered pair of tiny forceps. His dark eyes wer