In a fleeting waking dream I saw a procession winding through a fallow field. There were about a score of them, both men and women, walking one behind another. Most of them were rather young. They all wore white uniforms, which were alarmingly bloodstained. Some of them had white caps, too. One of them pushed a steel operating table and another pulled a cart loaded with medical instruments. It did not take me long to realize that this was a hospital crew of some kind—doctors, nurses, orderlies, technicians. And then I realized that there was a war. A calamitous war, in fact. The procession moved from one place to another, offering medical help wherever they went. This is how they survived amid atrocities of all kinds. The last thing I noticed before the reverie faded was that everyone in the procession was kind of merry. They marched along as though the world was theirs and theirs alone.