I had hardly spoken when there was a faint muffled boom in the distance and a long, deepening howl, and then a loud explosion that shook the building.

A few minutes after a second shell passed overhead and exploded somewhere in the town.

Then, without the usual warning, there was a roar that seemed to split our heads and an impact that sent us reeling backwards against the wall. The room was filled with dense, pungent smoke and dust that choked and blinded us. Above the violent droning in our ears we could hear the clatter of falling bits of plaster and masonry. A whistle blew and there was a shout of "Clear Billet." We thronged the doorway and poured down the stairs, panic stricken, but before we had left the building there was another reverberating crash and once again we were enveloped by smoke and dust while the bits of plaster showered down upon us from the ceiling. I bowed my head and held my arm up to protect my face. Something whizzed closely by, and a man dropped heavily with a groan in front of me. He lay on his face with one arm doubled up underneath, quite motionless. Two men went up to him and crossed their hands under his chest to raise him. His blood was gushing out and forming a pool on the floor. As we dashed out into the road I saw an artilleryman standing alone on the cobbles and looking around in a scared fashion. There was another deafening explosion and dense clouds of smoke issued from a building forty or fifty yards away. Suddenly the artilleryman clutched his face with his hand. The blood began to stream through his fingers and down his wrist into his sleeve. He hurried away with staggering steps.

We left the town behind us and waited near a barn in the open fields. We were joined by the two men who had remained behind to help our wounded fellow soldier.

"Is it serious?" we asked.

"Serious?—He's done for, poor chap! A big bit of shell caught him right in the chest—it didn't half make a hole. We carried him away from the billet and sat him up against a wall. We couldn't stop the blood from flowing. He came to for a few seconds though, and moaned, 'O my poor mother! O my poor mother!' enough to break your heart. And then he seemed to lose consciousness again. The ambulance arrived and we laid him on a stretcher. I expect he died before he got to the hospital."

"Anybody else hit?"

"Two of our fellows—one of them pretty seriously. They could both walk though. A lot of men from other units have been killed. The last shell dropped into a mess-room and laid out a dozen or more, and just as we were coming along we saw an artilleryman lying in the road with a big hole right in the middle of his face. He was still warm but his heart had stopped beating. It's a bloody awful feeling to lose one of your mates, though."

"I can't make it out, some'ow. 'E was talkin' an' jokin' to me only a few minutes back, an' now 'e's dead. The way 'e said 'O me poor mother!' nearly set me cryin'. Poor old chap, 'e was one o' the best—it's allus the best as gets killed an' the rotters left alive."

No more shells dropped into the town that day, but instead of going back to the billet, the men made their beds in the barn at nightfall. I returned to camp, thinking of the man who was dead and wondering whose turn would come next.



IV

THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION

"For who feels the horrors of war more than those who are responsible for its conduct? On whom does the burden of blood and treasure weigh most heavily? How can it weigh more heavily on any man or set of men than those on this bench?"

MR. BALFOUR (House of Commons, June 20th, 1918.)

The rain came swishing down. Water gathered on the canvas above, and heavy drops fell splashing on to the floor with monotonous regularity. Somebody was muttering curses in his sleep. Others were snoring loudly. I lay awake for a long time, staring into the black darkness of the marquee. Suddenly—it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning—the familiar rumbling noise broke out in the distance. It seemed to spread along the whole horizon. The "stunt" had begun.

A drowsy voice growled: "They're at it again—why can't they stop it once and for all." Another groaned deeply and muttered: "Awful—awful slaughter—blackguards, blackguards."

The uproar increased. I was filled with a terrible dejection, but I went to sleep in the end.

It was broad daylight when I woke up to the sound of innumerable motor-cars coming and going out on the road. The wounded were streaming in.

The operating theatre was alive with figures clothed in white, blood-stained garments, bustling up and down, or standing in groups around the other tables. At the far end of the theatre someone was blubbering like a little child.

"Here, come on—hold this man's leg up. What d'you think you're here for?" It was the surgeon at the next table who was speaking to me.

I grasped the leg by the foot—it was quite cold—while the orderly removed a bandage from the thigh. The bone had been shattered. A bullet had also entered the man's chest, making a small round puncture. A shell fragment had struck his upper lip, leaving a jagged triangular hole below the nose. Several teeth had been knocked out. The upper palate had been gashed and partly separated from the bone. It hung inside the half-open mouth like a shrivelled flap. He breathed feebly and irregularly. The surgeon bent over him and asked him if he had been wounded long. He answered in low, hoarse whispers that he had been lying in the mud and rain for several days. Then he turned his eyes up so that only the whites were visible. They remained rigidly fixed in that position. He received a dorsal injection, being too weak for chloroform. The shattered thigh was painted with picric acid and the tourniquet tightened above the injury. The surgeon cut through the leg with a circular sweep of the knife, the splintered bone offering no resistance. The limb came off in my hands. I held it for a moment, being awed by it. It seemed very heavy. Then I dropped it into the pail below. When the surgeon had dressed the stump, he made a slight incision in the forearm in order to inject a saline solution. The man, who had not uttered a sound hitherto, winced and gave a faint cry.

"Come along—hold this leg up!"

I darted to the next table and seized another foot and ankle. There was a greenish festering hole so high up the leg that it was impossible to use a tourniquet. So the surgeon laid bare the main artery by a longitudinal incision and tied it up with catgut to prevent excessive loss of blood. With a rapid stroke of his knife he then made a shallow cut right round the limb above the injured spot, and depressing the blade cut deeply down to the bone. The blood gushed up suddenly, formed a pool on the towels and sheet underneath, overflowed the edge of the table, and splashed down on to the floor in a cascade. The operator paused a moment and then, while the blood continued to stream from the wound, he cut round the bone until flesh was entirely severed from flesh. The upper periosteum was pushed back and held by means of a metal plate. The bone was sawn through—the saw grated and jerked and jarred in a horrible manner. The leg came off and I dropped it into the white enamelled pail. The toe-nails clicked against the enamel, and the thigh, bumping against the rim, overturned it and flopped into the pool of blood under the table.

"Come on—look sharp—never mind that leg—give a help here and remove this man's bandages."

I was looking at a head that resembled a huge football made of soiled linen. In place of the mouth there was a small, dirty hole through which the fetid breath came and went. Above the hole was a big red patch. I unwound the bandages one by one. Gradually the face was revealed. Between the mouth with black, swollen lips and the bruised eyes, closed by grey greenish lids, there was, where the nose should have been, a red hole big enough to contain a human fist.

The wounded came and went in an unbroken stream. The tables were always occupied. I went from one to another, unwound bandages, held up limbs for amputation, fetched splints, padding, gauze, or new bandages. I was too busy to think or to feel any horror. I was vaguely conscious of nausea and of a hot, stifling atmosphere heavy with the fumes of chloroform and ether.

Some of the wounded had arms that hung by shreds of muscle and sinew. Others had feet that were nothing but masses of clotted blood, lumps of torn flesh, and bits of bone tied up in blood-sodden linen parcels. Some had deep holes in their backs, others had gashes in their heads from which soft, pink matter oozed.

Before me lay a man with a blackened face, a shattered knee, and festering holes all over his body. Gas-gangrene had set in and the stench was almost unendurable. The surgeon gently felt the injured leg, but the man gave such long-drawn piercing shrieks that he had to be left alone. He was sent to the resuscitation ward to recover strength a little, for he was very weak through loss of blood. In the evening he began to rave—he asked for whisky in a boisterously jovial voice, and then he yelled and cried: "Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant, you've ruined my career." In the night he died.

The wounded were often perfectly silent. But more often they would groan or wail or shout. Sometimes they would all howl in chorus like cats on a roof. Indeed the weird and terrible howling of wounded men is more like the howling of cats than any other sound I know.

Men regaining consciousness after an operation would sometimes laugh uproariously or cackle fiendishly. Or they would break into torrents of filthy language. One man yelled in a crazy voice that England was the most glorious country on earth and that he had done his best to be a good soldier. Then he was seized by a fit of violent weeping, while someone at the other end of the theatre was shouting with intense fury: "If I had Lloyd George here, I'd shoot the blighter," and another man was carried out with his head lolling from side to side and saying in mad, amiable tones: "Zig-zag, zagazig, zig-zag," and so on without a break.

A man who had undergone an operation some days previously was brought in to have his wound redressed—a deep laceration, that reached from knee to hip and exposed the thigh-bone. The padding was removed, but as soon as the raw flesh was touched he threw back his head, bared his teeth, and uttered shrill, piercing cries in sudden blasts, and nothing could be done to comfort him.

Near by a wounded man had been lying quietly on a table when all at once he gave a yell and, before we could rush to the spot, he plunged head foremost and crashed down on to the floor. We picked him up, but his mind seemed too confused to realize what had happened. He did not struggle any more, but gibbered and whimpered piteously.

If the chloroform and ether were not administered with great care and skill, the patients would choke and kick and make furious efforts to tear the mask from their faces. And so great was the number of wounded and so rapidly was it necessary to perform each operation, that it was not humanly possible to devote sufficient time to each individual case. Gas was the most merciful anodyne, but it could only be used for brief operations. Under its influence men became unconscious quickly and without a struggle, and they recovered consciousness without the fearful retching and vomiting that always followed the use of chloroform or ether. And yet, even with gas, haste and carelessness and defective apparatus added suffering to suffering.

On the table lay a man with a shattered gangrenous knee. He received gas and became unconscious, but, just as the bone was being sawn through, he regained his senses. His face was ashen pale and the sweat ran down it in big drops. He was too weak to struggle, but his eyes were staring in a way that was terrible to see. I held the foot and an orderly held the stump while the saw grated harshly as it cut through the bone, and the man moaned in piteous drawling tones: "Jesus Christ have mercy upon me, God Almighty have mercy upon me, and forgive me all my sins." When the operation was over, he was carried out, making unintelligible sounds.

He was followed by a man from whose chest I removed a filthy, blood-sodden mass of padding. I observed that his breathing was becoming weaker and weaker. The anaesthetist shouted:

"Fetch the oxygen—look sharp!"

An orderly brought a long black cylinder along, but the rubber tubing was knotted in a bundle and several seconds passed before it could be disentangled. At last the end of the tube was pushed into the mouth of the dying man. The tap of the cylinder was turned on, but there was no sound of gas running through. The anaesthetist glared angrily around and shouted: "Corporal Chamberlain!"

The Corporal came and the anaesthetist thundered:

"Go and get a new cylinder—this one's empty—your damned carelessness again—look sharp about it."

It was the Corporal's business to see that the cylinder in the theatre was always full. He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the cupboard in which the reserve cylinders were kept, but he could not find it. He walked out and searched in the shed opposite the theatre. He came back without it.

"Hurry up for God's sake—the man's dying—it'll be too late in a minute!"

He looked round the theatre with affected deliberation, for the angry shouting of the anaesthetist had wounded his pride. At last he found the key on a shelf. He unlocked the cupboard, fetched out a new cylinder, and placed it beside the table. The tube was pushed into the open mouth, the tap was turned, there was a rush of gas. But it was too late. The man was dead.

"D'you see what you've done?" shouted the infuriated anaesthetist. "Here's a man dead through your neglect. Don't you bloody well let it occur again, else I'll put you under close arrest and have you up for a court martial."

The Corporal walked sulking out of the theatre and muttered something about a "bloody fuss."

One of the orderlies went to the door and shouted:

"Another slab for the mortuary!"—Those who died on the operating tables were facetiously called "slabs."

Two bearers came in with a stretcher. The corpse was pushed on to it and carried away to the mortuary. There it would be sewn up in an army blanket, ready for burial. And then a telegram would be sent to a wife or mother, informing her that her husband or son had "died of wounds received in action."

There was amputation after amputation. The surgeons were tired of cutting off legs and arms—it was "so monotonous and uninteresting," as one of the sisters put it.

Then there came a little variety in the shape of a man with a bullet wound in his throat. He breathed quite normally, but when the bandage was removed, his breath rushed bubbling through the aperture and bespattered all who stood around with little drops of blood. "A most unpleasant case." He was quickly replaced, however, by another who lay on a stretcher white and motionless. His tunic had been unbuttoned. His shirt had been pulled loosely over a big, round object that appeared to be lying on his belly. The surgeon drew back the shirt. The round object was still concealed by a dirty piece of lint. The surgeon lifted it off and revealed a huge coil of bluish red entrail bulging out through a frightful gash in the abdomen.

"Here, Crawford, here's something for you!"

Captain Crawford was an abdominal specialist, at least he was particularly interested in abdominal cases, or "belly cases" as they were humorously termed. Captain Wheeler, who had called him, was interested in knee cases. Captain Maynard, who was working at the far end of the theatre, had a fondness for head cases.

"Such a delightful tummy, isn't it?" said Captain Wheeler, who spoke in the affected drawl of our public schools and universities.

"Rather," replied Captain Crawford, who had come over from his table holding a blood-stained scalpel in his hand. He added:

"Just my rotten luck—I've only had amputations."

He looked at the bulging entrail admiringly and went back to his work. In a few minutes he was ready for the next case—a man whose head was thickly swathed in bandages.

"That's a bit of a change, anyhow—I'm fed up with legs and arms."

The bandages were removed. Amid a mass of tangled, blood-clotted hair was an irregular patch where a piece of bone had been blown away, leaving the brain-matter exposed.

The Sister looked at it with eager curiosity and said:

"A most interesting case. I'm sure Captain Maynard would so love to see it! Captain Maynard!"

"One moment, Sister!" He was busy with a delicate knee operation. After a little delay he came over and inspected the damaged head.

"You've got all the luck," he said. "I haven't had a decent head for ages. Still, I s'pose we have to put up with these annoyances—horrors of war, you know!" He laughed and the Sister smiled. Then he went back to his knee while Captain Wheeler attended to the head.

It must not be supposed that the surgeons, sisters and orderlies of the ——th C.C.S. were particularly cruel and heartless. They were simply ordinary human beings and the ordinary human being, however he may be horrified by the first sight of wounds and suffering, soon gets used to them and accepts them as facts of everyday life.

It was growing dark outside and the electric light was switched on. The wounded still arrived in multitudes. Towards eight o'clock the day-shift came to an end and the night-shift began. We had no time to clear the theatre. The new surgeons continued where the old had left off. They were in high spirits and set to work merrily, exchanging jokes all the time.

The bearers were utterly exhausted and several of them had blue rings round their eyes through lack of sleep.

"Poor bearers," said one of the Sisters, "I do feel so sorry for them—they have an awfully hard time!"

Captain Dowden—another "head specialist"—said to me:

"Give the bearers a bit of a rest. Go to the Prep. yourself and bring me a nice head case."

I went accompanied by an orderly. The Prep. was a long marquee and on either side was a long row of stretchers, one close up against another. A man was lying on each, generally silent and motionless. Only a few were groaning feebly. We selected one whose head looked like a parcel of blood-sodden bandages. We carried him into the theatre and laid him on to the table.

The bandages were unwound. The man's hair was matted and caked with gore. There were three deep gashes in the skull. The head was washed and shaved and then painted with picric acid. The brilliant electric light, the clean white garments of the fresh teams, the bare head painted bright yellow and the three thin streaks of red blood trickling down made a strange picture. The largest wound was just above one ear. A local anaesthetic was injected and the skin round the injury pushed back. With a pair of curved pincers the surgeon broke away bits of bone from the edge of the hole. Then he pushed his little finger deeply into it and fetched out a large bone fragment and a quantity of soft matter, coloured a pale red, which he allowed to flop down on to the floor. The man was motionless except that he violently wagged his left big toe. And all the time he made a continuous cooing, purring noise, like that of a brooding hen.

The surgeon working at the next table, Captain Wycherley, received a "case" with a shattered right arm and a right thigh. He called his colleague, Captain Calthrop, over, and the two operated together, the one amputating the arm and the other the leg.

Meanwhile the head case was replaced by a boy who came walking into the theatre and mounted the table unassisted. His right eye was bandaged. As he became unconscious under gas the bandage was removed. With a few dexterous strokes of his scalpel Captain Dowden removed all that was left of the eyeball, a dark, amorphous mess. The wound was cleaned, dressed and bandaged. The boy regained consciousness. For a moment he looked vacantly round. Then he slowly raised his hand to the bandage, and, turning down the corners of his mouth suddenly broke into bitter weeping. He was gently helped down from the table and led out of the theatre, crying: "They've done for me eye, oh, oh, oh, they've done for me eye!"

"Poor kid," murmured the Captain sympathetically, and began to operate on the next man, who had a wound in his shoulder about as large as a hand. In the middle of the raw flesh a short length of undamaged bone was visible. Nothing serious, and only a flesh wound. The man inhaled the chloroform and ether fumes without choking or struggling. His wound was excised, "spirit bipped," dressed and bandaged. Then he was whisked off the table and carried away to a ward.

In the doorway appeared a man with his arm in a sling. He was dazzled by the electric light and put his hand over his eyes. Captain Wycherley called out to him: "Come along, my lad, and hop on to this table." He walked up to the table with uncertain steps. An orderly helped him on to it. He lay back and turned his head to one side and looked towards the next table on which Captain Calthrop was amputating an arm. It came off in the hands of an orderly who dropped it into the bucket. The newcomer followed it with horror-stricken eyes. He continued to gaze, as though fascinated, at the half-closed hand that projected above the edge of the bucket. Then he trembled violently.

Captain Wycherley observed what was happening and said:

"Come on, don't worry about the next man. Let's have a look at your wound."

"Yer not goin' ter take orf me arm, are yer, sir?"

"No, of course not, don't be so silly!"

"Yer won't 'urt me, sir, will yer?"

"No, no. Pull yourself together now. Be a man! You won't feel anything at all."

The orderly untied the sling and began to unwind the bandage, but the man drew his arm away and cried:

"Oo, oo, oo,—very painful, sir, very painful!"

The orderly, pleased at being mistaken for an officer, said in a soothing, patronizing voice:

"We'll just have this bit o' bandage orf an' then we'll give yer some gas and send yer orf to sleep. You won't feel nothin' and yer a sure Blighty. I wouldn' be surprised if yer got acrorss termorrer."

He went on unwinding the bandage, but the man began to shout and struggle again.

Thereupon the surgeon intervened:

"For God's sake be quiet. Pull yourself together and don't make such a fuss."

"I can't 'elp it, sir—I couldn't never stick no pain, sir, no, sir, never, sir—it's very painful, sir, very painful. I'll try 'ard, I'll do me best—but it is painful, sir."

However, as soon as the bandage was pulled a little he yelled and writhed. The surgeon at last lost patience and said: "Hold him down."

Two orderlies and two bearers seized his hands and feet while the bandage was quickly removed. He shrieked and struggled violently, but he was firmly held.

He had a small, deep wound in the fleshy part of the forearm. He received gas and soon lost consciousness. The surgeon pushed a probe into the hole. There was a metallic click, whereupon he inserted his forceps and pulled out a jagged piece of steel, the fragment of a German shell. When the wound had been excised and dressed, the man was carried away and replaced by another whose right leg was thickly wrapped up. The wrapping was removed and revealed a shattered knee and two toes dangling from the foot. Captain Wycherley snipped them off with a pair of scissors. The man winced and they dropped on to the floor. The anaesthetist administered gas. It was some time, however, before the patient lost consciousness, for the balloon that adjoined the mouthpiece leaked badly and once the rubber-tubing was blown off the nozzle of the cylinder.

Captain Dowden was busy with a foot, or all that was left of a foot, a number of crimson shreds hanging from an ankle over a projecting piece of bone. Captain Calthrop was attending to a "belly case"—he had cut a longitudinal slit in his patient's abdomen and both his hands were groping inside it, buried up to the wrists, while the stomach-wall heaved up and down with the breathing of the unconscious man.

The "case" lying on the end table had been in the C.C.S. for several days. He had undergone operation as soon as he arrived. At that time he only had a small surface-wound below the knee, but it was slightly gangrenous. The next day the gas-gangrene appeared above the knee-joint. The wound was excised a second time. But soon afterwards gangrene appeared again, still higher up, and a third operation was necessary. And now the wound stretched from below the knee almost as far as the hip. It was shallow, but as broad as a hand and of a greyish-green colour. The man breathed feebly and his eyes were turned up so that only the whites were visible. He received gas. Amputation was impossible for the gangrene had reached too far. The wound was excised, but the surgeon said: "I'm afraid he's done for, poor fellow." The man's breathing became almost imperceptible. The oxygen cylinder was sent for, the rubber tube was pushed in between the blue lips, and the gas rushed through. In a few seconds he had revived and gave loud and regular snorts, jerking back his head and shaking his body with each ingoing breath. He was taken back to the ward and put back to bed. He began to talk volubly about his wife and children. Within half an hour he was dead.

"Just go and see if there are many left in the Prep.," said Captain Dowden to his orderly.

The orderly came back and reported that there were hardly a dozen.

"Any Huns amongst them?"

"Four or five, sir."

"Are we still receiving?"

"No, sir, we stopped about an hour ago. There won't be any more cases arriving to-night, sir."

"Good—we shall be able to get off early, at two or three in the morning if we're lucky. We can take things easy a bit."

The bearers came in with a stretcher.

"Take it easy, bearers. There's no hurry—we haven't got many more to do. Just put him on that table there."

The newcomer's left leg was thickly bandaged, but the blood was oozing through and forming a pool on the table. When the bandage was removed, Captain Dowden examined the limb, but no injury was visible on the upper surface. I grasped the foot—it was blue and cold. I raised it, so that the surgeon could look at the under-surface of the leg. As I did so, the calf gave way in the middle. He told me angrily to pull harder. I pulled until the leg was taut again. The muscles and the sinews squeaked faintly as they stretched. Underneath the calf was a big hole and the bone had been completely shattered. The man was strangely quiet. His bare chest did not move. I looked at his face and suddenly I saw his lower jaw drop. He was dead.

"Another slab for the mortuary!"

The remaining tables were empty and no more wounded were brought in for a while. The bearers were obeying the surgeon's order and were taking a rest. The officers and sisters in the theatre were in high spirits. They were trying to speak French and ridiculing each other's efforts. Captain Wycherley began to hum a tune and wave his amputation knife like the conductor of an orchestra, whereupon the others locked arms and danced up and down the theatre, talking and joking. Then Captain Calthrop broke away and danced by himself, kicking his legs up in the air. The Sisters watched him and laughed loudly. One of them could hardly control herself, and shrieking with laughter, cried:

"Oh, Captain Calthrop, you really are too funny!"

Captain Dowden had not joined in the merrymaking. He was standing by the table on which the corpse was lying. He smiled uneasily and said to an orderly: "Tie up his jaw and his feet and hands and take him away. And tell the bearers to get a move on. Let's get finished as quickly as possible."

The orderly pushed the dead man's lower jaw sharply against the upper, so that the teeth clicked, and kept it in position by tying a bandage right round the head. Then he crossed the dead hands and feet and tied them together also.

He went to the door and shouted, "Bearers!"

But only one bearer appeared with a stretcher over his shoulder. I helped him to lift the corpse on to it and carry it away. It was an intensely black night. All was silent except for an occasional muffled boom in the distance and the sound of someone whimpering in one of the wards. Our load was very heavy and we had to feel our way slowly along the duckboards. When they came to an end we walked through the grass. I was in front and all at once I tripped over some obstacle. With a strenuous effort I retained my balance but nearly tipped the dead man off the stretcher. We walked on, but did not reach the mortuary, although we should have done so long ago. We put the stretcher down and looked around. The darkness enveloped us like a mantle. We could see nothing except a few shafts of light that shone through chinks in the walls of the distant operating theatre. Roughly guessing our direction we continued our journey. I felt a tent rope brushing against my leg. I stepped over it and encountered another, while the orderly knocked his foot against a peg. We put the stretcher down a second time. It rested partly on the ground and partly on the ropes, and we held the corpse for fear it should roll off. We shouted for a light. Someone answered near by and struck a match. The momentary glimmer was sufficient to show that we were standing amongst the ropes of the mortuary marquee. The man struck another match to show us the way in. We entered and added our burden to a double row of other dead, who lay there in the flickering match-light staring at the roof with sightless eyes and rigid, expressionless faces.

When we got back to the theatre all the three teams were busy again.

The bearers came in with a case, and one of them said:

"This is the last Englishman, sir. There's about half a dozen Fritzes to do, sir."

"Bring 'em along—let's get the job done."

The swing-doors were pushed open and two bearers appeared with a stretcher on which a man clothed in grey was lying. His dark hair was matted. His boyish face was intensely white. His eyes were closed. He gave a hardly audible moan with every breath. A blanket was drawn up to his chin.

"Is this a Hun or a gentleman?" asked Captain Calthrop.

"A 'Un, sir," said one of the bearers and grinned.

"Dump him on the table!"

The blanket was removed and a blood-sodden strip of linen unwound from the German boy's right forearm, which was hanging to his shoulder by a few shreds of flesh and sinew.

"Tell him his arm's got to come off."

I explained to the boy that it would be necessary to remove his arm in order to save his life.

He did not seem to understand at first and looked at me with a puzzled expression. Then he suddenly broke into a wail, like a little child, and cried, "Ach Jesus, ach Jesus, ach Jesus ..."

The chloroform mask soon muffled his cries and he became unconscious. I grasped his cold hand and slender wrist. The arm was rapidly amputated. The red stump with the disc of severed bone in the middle was cleaned and bandaged and he was carried back to the prisoners' ward, retching and vomiting.

On Captain Wheeler's table lay a healthy looking German with a bronzed face. His legs were pitted with a great number of small wounds caused by minute bomb fragments. The mask was clapped over his mouth and the chloroform allowed to drip on to it. But he inhaled the fumes with difficulty, and began to choke.

The anaesthetist got angry and snarled:

"That's it, choke away—a choker like all the rest of them—you blasted race of murderers—I'm sorry for the individual though, this deluded fool, for instance."

Captain Dowden was vainly trying to converse with a German who had been hit in the back. The bullet had passed through the lower part of his lung, and then through the abdomen, leaving a hole through which part of the intestine projected.

"Come along and ask him some questions," he said to me. "Don't stand about there doing nothing—make yourself useful. Tell him he'll be well treated—better than the English wounded are treated in Germany."

The prisoner answered in a drawling whisper:

"I never expected bad treatment—the English wounded are not treated badly by us either."

"Aren't they! That's all he knows about it!... Ask him if he likes war."

"O God, no—war's good for the rich, not for the poor."

"I thought these Huns loved warfare—ask him if he thinks Germany will win."

"Germany's in a bad way—Ach Gott, don't ask me any more, give me something to stop my pain!"

"That's the retort diplomatic! Send him off to sleep—let's get the job done."

When the man had lost consciousness, Captain Grierson, the anaesthetist, put the chloroform bottle aside, jumped down from the stool, and searched the pockets of his helpless patient. He did not find much, however, only a few letters and picture postcards until he came to a deep trouser pocket from which he drew a big German pipe.

"Not a bad souvenir," he said, as he put it into his own pocket and returned to his stool. Of course this was not stealing, it was merely "scrounging" or "pinching" or "collecting souvenirs," which is an entirely different thing.

For a time the surgeons worked silently, amputating arms and legs, holding the bare skin between two fingers and cutting the flesh, throwing bleeding bits on to the floor, dressing and bandaging stumps and excised wounds.

Captain Calthrop was grumbling at the tedium of the work when his anaesthetist lit upon a happy thought and said:

"How'd you like to try your hand at giving an anaesthetic? I'll have a shot at surgery—I've never done it before. I'd like to see if I'm any good at it."

"Right you are," replied Captain Calthrop, "we'll change over."

"Jolly good idea," added Captain Wycherley at the next table, "we'll change over too."

"Right-o," said his anaesthetist.

And so the two anaesthetists operated and the two surgeons gave anaesthetics. It was, perhaps, rather a dangerous thing to do, but as the wounded men were only Germans it did not matter.

Captain Dowden took no part in this experiment. In fact he even suggested that it was "a bit thick," but his disapproval did not assume a more tangible form.

After finishing one case each, the four surgeons and anaesthetists changed back again.

"Surgery, isn't so bad as I thought it would be."

"Isn't it—you wait till you get an abdominal!"

"Giving an anaesthetic's rather a ticklish affair. I thought my man was going to choke to death, he got so blue in the face."

A few more Germans with slight flesh wounds that only required dressing were brought in, and then the work of the night shift was over.

The surgeons, anaesthetists and sisters trooped out gaily to have tea and cakes in the shed opposite the entrance to the theatre.

Our work was not yet over, for we still had to put everything in order for the day shift.

The operating theatre looked like a butcher's shop. There were big pools and splashes of blood on the floor. Bits of flesh and skin and bone were littered everywhere. The gowns of the orderlies were stained and bespattered with blood and yellow picric acid. Each bucket was full of blood-sodden towels, splints, and bandages, with a foot, or a hand, or a severed knee-joint overhanging the rim.

Two of us got pails of hot water and set to work with swabs, scrubbing brushes and soap. We mopped up the pools of blood and wrung our swabs out over the pails until the dirty water became dark red. We scrubbed till our arms ached. With our bare hands we brushed the bits of flesh, skin and bone into little heaps and threw them into the buckets, and these we emptied into a big tub after picking out the amputated limbs which we carried off to the incinerator to be burnt. Within an hour and a half the theatre was clean and tidy.

A heap of blankets and articles of clothing had been left in a corner. We loaded them on to a stretcher and carried them to a small tent some distance away, taking a candle with us.

We folded the blankets and stacked them carefully. Some of them were clammy and slippery to the touch. Others were hard and stiff. The rank smell of stale, clotted blood was sickening.

The clothing we carried to the pack store, a large marquee, where we sorted it, putting great-coats, tunics and shirts on separate heaps. I was holding a shirt when I became aware of a tickling sensation across one hand. I hurriedly dropped the garment and lowered the candle so that I could see it distinctly. It was swarming with lice.

We walked out into the darkness and made for our own marquee. As we passed the prisoners' ward an orderly called out from inside:

"'Ere, just come in a minute. 'Ere's a Fritz been 'ollerin' out all the evenin'—come an' tell us what 'e wants."

We went in. The prisoners were lying on stretchers in two rows. Most of them were asleep, but one was tossing about and crying in piteous tones:

"Hab'ich noch'n Arm, oder hab'ich keinen?"

"'E's bin at it for 'ours, pore bloke. Arst 'im what 'e wants—I 'xpect it's somethin' ter do with 'is arm what they took orf early in the evenin'."

I asked the man what he wanted and noticed that his right arm had been taken off at the shoulder. He was silent for a moment and looked at me with haggard eyes. Then suddenly he wailed:

"Kamerad, sag mir doch—Comrade, tell me—is my arm still there, or is it gone?"

"He wants to know if he's still got his arm," I said to the orderly, who turned to the prisoner and exclaimed: "Arm bon, goot!"

"Aber ich fuehl ja nichts—But I can't feel anything—for God's sake tell me if it's still there!—Ach Gott, ach Gott, ach Gott."

He buried his face in his pillow and sobbed hysterically.

I explained to him that it had been necessary to remove his arm, but that he would live and be well treated and see no more fighting.

He turned round and stared at me and then shouted jubilantly:

"Jetzt weiss ich's—Now I know—thank God, I shall live, live, live. O du lieber Himmel, das Gluck ist zu gross."

He gave a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction and closed his eyes and turned on his side to go to sleep.

Somehow it seemed strange that there could be any happiness left in the world.

"Thanks awfully," said the orderly. "It must 'a' bin the uncertainty what upset 'im. I'm bloody glad yer came in. Yer've done 'im a world o' good. I took to the pore bloke some'ow—I allus feels pertickler sorry fur wounded Fritzes, I dunno why. I 'xpect 'e's got a missis an' kiddies just like meself.... Good-night!"

"Good-night," I answered, and added mentally:

"Your profession of soldier, the most degrading on earth, has not degraded you. You are engaged in the most infamous and sordid war that was ever fought, and yet you have remained uncontaminated—there is no honour or decoration in all the armies of the world good enough for you."

We entered our marquee and made our beds.

All at once I noticed how utterly tired I was both in mind and body. I crept under the blankets and closed my eyes and saw a vast confusion of red and yellow patches, of severed limbs and staring eyes and blue, distorted faces of suffocating men. They thronged the darkness in ever increasing numbers and then they arranged themselves into a kind of gigantic wheel that began to turn slowly round and round. And suddenly I became conscious of a grief so intense that it seemed almost like physical pain, but weariness soon mastered every other sensation and I fell into a dreamless sleep.



V

WALKING WOUNDED

"The war is doing me good as though it were a bath-cure."

(FIELD MARSHAL VON HINDENBURG.)

Some had dirty bandages round their heads. Some had their arms in slings. Others had hands so thickly swathed that they looked like the huge paws of polar-bears. Many were caked with mud and wore tattered uniforms. Some limped or hobbled along. Others could walk unaided. Some leaned heavily on our shoulders and some we had to carry on our backs.

As each one entered the waiting-room—a little wooden shed opposite the swing-doors of the operating theatre—we took off his boots and tunic and made him sit down in front of the glowing stove. From time to time an orderly would shout across from the theatre:

"Next man!"

And we would take the "next man" over and help him to mount one of the tables.

They were all very quiet at first and many sat with bowed heads. Some were dreading the operation, others, who were not badly wounded, looked bright and cheerful, as well they might, for they were going to have a holiday, perhaps in England, but anyhow at the Base, where they would enjoy a respite from danger, hardship, and misery—a respite that might last for weeks. And in the meantime the war might come to an end—one could never tell.

Two infantrymen with packs and rifles passed by. They had been discharged from the C.C.S. and were going to rejoin their units. They stopped outside the waiting-room for a few minutes and looked enviously at the wounded sitting round the stove inside, and murmured with deep conviction: "Lucky devils."

A patient came out of the theatre with bandaged arm. He held a large, semi-circular piece of iron in his hand.

"Is that what they took out o' yer arm?" said one of the infantrymen.

"Yes—decent bit, isn't it!"

"Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere, to lay me up for months."

His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing:

"I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that hell up the line!"

"'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?"

"Sure!"

The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily.

A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible.

"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?"

The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it. Suddenly a man shouted from the background:

"Them bastard Fritzes—I'd poison the 'ole lot." And that started the argument.

"I reckon one man's as good as another."

"I reckon a Tommy's worth a dozen Fritzes. The bleeders ought ter be wiped orf the face o' the bleed'n' earth. I see 'em do a thing or two, I tell yer—me an' my mate was in the line down Plugstreet way when they crucified a Canadian. I see the tree what they did it on wi' me own eyes—dirty lot o' swine!"

"Bloody lies! Yer read it in the paper!"

"Wha' if I did?"

"Yer said yer saw it yerself!"

"Well, I read it in the papers and then I see the tree what they did it on arterwards. The nails was still there. An' what d'you know about it? Yer in the artillery, yer don't see no fightin'!"

"Don't see no fightin'! Gorblimy, I reckon the infantry wouldn't be much bleedin' cop wi'out the artillery."

"I'll tell yer what the artillery do—blow up their own mates what's in the front line, there now!"

"If we'd 'ad artillery in August, 1914, the war'd 'a' bin over in three weeks!"

"Don't yer believe it! It's the infantry what 'as all the danger an' gits all the rotten jobs. The artillery's cushey compared wi' the infantry."

"The artillery 'as a bloody sight 'eavier losses!"

"Go on—tell us another! It's no good arguin' wi' yer, yer won't see any side 'cept yer own."

But a third man, bringing the argument back to its original subject, said:

"I reckon it's all bloody lies what's in the papers. The Belgies is a damn sight worse'n Jerry. [The Germans.] Yer know that there gun what used to shell Poperinge—well, they never knew where the shells came from till they found it was a Belgian batt'ry 'id in a tunnel. They caught the gunners when they was telephonin' to Jerry. They stood the 'ole bleed'n' lot up aginst a wall an' shot 'em—serve 'em right too."

"Go on—tell us another!"

"I bet yer it's true, now then!"

"How much do you bet?"

"Fifteen bloody francs!"

"All right, I'll take yer on!"

"I reckon the Froggies is the worst," said a man who had not spoken before. "I was out 'ere in 1914 an' they didn't 'alf let us down. I was a bloody fool ter join up though—I'd like to strangle meself for it. They won't catch me volunteerin' for the next war, not this child, no bloody fear! Look at the way they treat yer—like bleed'n' pigs. There ain't no justice anywhere. There's strong an' 'ealthy fellers at the Base just enjoyin' theirselves. Then there's the 'eads what 'as servants to wait on 'em—d'yer think French or Duggie 'Aig ever 'as shells burstin' round 'em? Then there's the Conchies what 'as a easy time in clink—if I see a Conchy in civvy life, I'll knock 'is bloody 'ead orf, struth I will. And the civvies—gorblimy—when I was 'ome on leave they kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet?' an' 'When are yer goin' back?' But d'yer think they care a damn—Not they, you bet yer life on it! They don't want the war to stop—they're earnin' good money an' go to dances an' cinemas. They'd start cryin' if we 'ad peace—I tell yer, I was glad when me leave was over an' I was back wi' me mates. I won't 'alf throw me weight about when I gits out o' the army! I won't 'alf raise 'ell—I'll 'ave a bloody revverlution, you see if I don't!..."

The shout of "Next man" sounded across from the theatre, and the would-be destroyer of the social order got up and walked across.

"Where were you wounded?" asked one of the soldiers of his neighbour who was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips, evidently being in great pain.

"Near Eeps, [Ypres] by the Canal. A shell busted in front o' me an' a bit copped me in the shoulder. Fritz was sending 'em over by the 'undreds, whizz-bangs an' 'eavy stuff all mixed up—gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf give yer what for!"

There was a temporary lull in the conversation and then a small, wiry, spiteful looking Cockney spoke. He had reddish hair and big round spectacles of the army pattern.

"I didn' 'alf do it on a Fritz afore I was wounded! 'E give 'isself up an' I takes 'im along—I makes 'im walk in front o' me—yer can't take no risks wi' them bastards. 'E turns rahnd an' says ter me in English—'e must 'a' bin a clurk or a scholard—'e says, sarcastic like, 'I s'pose yer think yer goin' ter win the war!' I gets me rag out an' tells 'im ter mind 'is own bleed'n' business. I tells 'im if I catch 'im lookin' rahnd agin I'll kill 'im! We walks on a bit an' suddenly I throws a Mills at 'im—gorblimy, it wasn't 'alf a fine shot, it busted right on 'is shoulder. It didn' 'alf make a mess of 'im—I bet 'is own mother wouldn't 'a' rekkernized 'im as 'e lay there wi' 'is clock all smashed up!"

"I think it's a damned shame to kill a man after he's surrendered," said a tall Corporal.

"I wasn't goin' ter stand no bleed'n' sarcasm! An' Fritz does the same to our blokes! It's 'e what started it! We learnt it orf of 'im!"

"Yes, that's what they all say. It's always the other man who's done it first. There's been many a fellow who's quite decent at heart who's murdered a helpless prisoner thinking to avenge some abominable outrage that was never committed, but only dished up by some skunk of a pen-pusher who's never seen any fighting in his life. I don't know much about Fritz, he may be worse than us or he may be better, but I've seen our fellows do some bloody awful things. Anyhow, I know the German soldier's doing his bit just as we are. He thinks he's in the right and we think we're in the right, and he's just as much entitled to his opinion as we are to ours. And I tell you straight, if I had the choice between killing a German soldier and killing Lord Northcliffe, I'd shake hands with the German and ask him to help me kill Lord Northcliffe and a few others like him. And I'm not the only one who's that way of thinking, I can tell you. We call ourselves sportsmen, but have we ever recognized that we got a brave enemy? Say what you like about Fritz, he may be a brute, but he's got some pluck—he's up against the world, he is. He'll be beaten in the end, that's a cert, but he's putting up a bloody hard fight. I didn't think much of him before I came out, but it's hats off to him now! But d'you think the civvies or the papers admit it? No bloody fear! The other day I saw a picture of the grenades we use—I think it was in the Graphic or one of these illustrated rags. It was headed, 'Ferreting Fritz out of his Funk Holes.' I know the man who wrote that hasn't been in the trenches himself! He's never seen a lot of Germans lying dead round their machine-gun after fighting to the last, as I have! He hasn't even seen a shell burst, not he! I bet he slipped into his funk hole, though, when there was an air-raid on! Dirty, filthy swine! When I was home on leave I got so wild at the way the civvies talked that I gave them a piece of my mind and told them a thing or two. And one of them called me a pro-German! He, of course, was a patriot. He was making money out of the war and wanted a fight to a finish. Well, I got my rag out properly and I caught him by the throat and shook him till he was blue in the face. It was in the street too, and a lot of people standing about. They didn't say anything more after that, though! I felt I'd done a good deed. I was really glad to feel I'd clutched his windpipe with all my strength. I expect he still wears the marks of my finger-nails, although it happened months ago...."

"'Ere, 'ere! That's the stuff to give 'em! I reckon Fritz is a bloody good sport. We ought ter shake 'ands an' make peace now. Peace at any price, that's what I say.... I tell yer a thing what 'appened when I was in the line. We 'ad a little dog wi' us an' one night she must 'a' strayed inter Fritz's trenches. The next mornin' she came back wi' a card tied round 'er neck an' on the card it 'ad: 'To our comrades in misfortune—What about Peace.' I reckon that was a jolly decent thing ter say. Jerry wants ter get 'ome to 'is missis an' kiddies just as much as what we do!"

"Next three men," shouted the theatre orderly.

The next three were light cases. They were dealt with very quickly. Then the German hobbled across and several English wounded followed in rapid succession. When the waiting-room was empty we went over to the Prep. and fetched the other Germans along. There were no wounded arriving at the station at that moment, but we knew from the distant rumble of the bombardment that the Prep. would soon be crowded once again.

A number of British soldiers gathered round the entrance of the waiting-room, curious to see the prisoners and hear what they had to say.

"Ask 'em if they're glad to be out of it."

I put the question and there was a chorus of fervent "Ja's" and "Gott sei Dank's."

They were all glad to be out of it. No more fighting for them, Gott sei Dank! War was no good, at least not for the common soldier.

"Ask him what he thinks of Hindenburg."

A cheerful youngster from East Prussia answered: "Der's' nicht besser als wir—He's no better than we are!"

"Did you ever see him?"

"Yes, he came into the trenches a week ago and gave us cakes and cigars."

"But that was jolly sporting of him, wasn't it?"

"He can keep his cigars—he doesn't have to lie in shell holes for days on end."

"War's no good," said a small man with a protruding forehead and keen eyes and wearing a red-cross on his arm. "Ich danke meinem Gott—I thank my God that I've never taken up a rifle during the whole war, and I've been in it since the beginning. No human being has lost his life through me, thank God."

"Was fuer'n Zweck hat es—What's the good of shooting each other like this? The heads ought to come and fight it out amongst themselves."

"It's good for politicians and profiteers—fuer die ist's gut."

"Ask them what they think of the submarines."

A Lieutenant of the Prussian Guard answered contemptuously that he didn't think much of them. He didn't believe stories of food-shortage in England, he didn't believe anything the papers said, they were all full of lies.

"Ask them if they're satisfied with their treatment."

Yes, they were all satisfied. The Lieutenant pronounced it "blendend" (dazzling). They had not eaten so much and such good food for months and months. Oh it was good to be out of the fighting. Yes, their treatment was perfect—except for the thieving. Why were British soldiers allowed to steal the buttons, caps, rings, and watches belonging to their prisoners?

A German private, a tall thin man with bushy eyebrows, who had not spoken hitherto, said he didn't mind losing a few buttons—but to rob a man of his marriage ring, that was very mean—eine Gemeinheit—his marriage ring had been taken from him: he would have lost anything rather than that, for it always reminded him of home.

The boy from East Prussia said he didn't care what they took from him as long as they didn't take his life. He was safe now and nothing else mattered. He spoke with a Polish accent.

I asked him what town he came from.

"Allenstein."

"Did you see anything of the Russians in 1914?"

"Jawohl"—he had seen plenty of Russian troops. They behaved very well. "Die sind besser als die Deutschen—They're better than the Germans...."

But the theatre orderly interrupted us and asked us to "send two or three across."

I went to the Prep. to see if there were any new arrivals. It was full once again and the wounded were streaming into the station.

It was quite dark outside. The duckboards were lit up by rows of hurricane lamps. The bombardment was still going on.

When I got back to the waiting-room all the prisoners were gone and English wounded were taking their places. Soon the benches round the stove were crowded with dark figures whose hands and faces were lit up by the glow.

A man with haggard features and a bandage round his head began to talk in a mournful voice:

"Oh, it's 'ard ter lose yer mates. There was three of us—we was always together—we couldn't bear the idea o' separatin'. One of us copped a packet [got wounded] about three months ago an' went inter dock [hospital]—'e wasn't 'alf upset when 'e left us, though 'e was a sure Blighty—'e was afeard they'd send 'im to another mob when 'e got well agin. But 'e came back to us arter all—we didn't 'alf 'ave a bust up that evenin'. The two of us was absolutely canned to the wide [dead drunk]—'e wasn't though, 'e didn' drink much—'e was better'n what we was—well-spoken like—didn' go arter no tarts—didn' do no swearin'. Yer never came acrorst a better mate'n what 'e was! We was goin' over the top when a shell busted in front of us. It blinded me for a moment and then when I could see agin—gorblimy—it must 'a' copped 'im in the stomach an' ripped it open—ugh!—'e was rollin' over wi' all 'is guts 'angin' out—ugh!—yer should 'a' 'eard 'im groan. 'Me own mate,' I says ter 'im, but 'e didn't rekkernize nothin' and then we 'ad to go on—yer can't stop when yer goin' over! Soon arter me other mate copped it too. Somethin' bowled 'im clean over, but 'e gets up again an' shows me 'is arm. 'There's a bastard,' 'e says, as cool as yer like—'is 'and was blown clean orf at the wrist! He just turned round an' was walkin' orf to the dressin' station when a shell busted atween us. It copped me in the 'ead an' knocked me senseless. Arterwards I 'eard me mate 'ad bin blowed ter bits. Oh, it's 'ard when yer've bin together all the time an' shared everythink."

He buried his face in his hands and made no further sound except an occasional sniff and a hasty drawing in of the breath through trembling lips.

"It's bloody murder up the line," said a full Corporal. "We were in a trench four feet deep and up to our waist in water. A Jerry sniper spotted us and one man got biffed, [killed] and then the next, and then the next all along the trench. We were packed together like sardines and had no cover at all for our heads and shoulders. I got the wind up terribly 'cause I knew my turn was coming. He only gave me a Blighty though—I reckon I'm bloody lucky!"

"We was ready for to go over the top an' waitin' for the whistle to blow. We didn't 'alf 'ave the wind up. You could 'ear the teeth chatterin' all along the trench. I was shiverin' all over, I...."

"Next man!" The conversation stopped while the next man went across, but having once begun to tell their experiences, the men would not stop altogether, and after a brief silence an elderly little man with a bandaged foot said:

"What I couldn't get over was insomnia. I could never sleep at the right time and I was always dead tired on duty. Once I worked forty-three hours at a stretch and after that I had to do a guard in our trench. I felt sleepy all of a sudden. I pinched myself and banged the butt of my rifle on my toes, but everything seemed to swim round me. Then, I don't know how, I went off to sleep. I was awakened by an officer who shook me and swore at me. I was a bit dazed at first and then suddenly it struck me what had happened. I never had the wind up so much in all my life and I implored him not to report me. I don't remember what happened next, I was in such a state. But he did report me. I got a court martial and was sentenced to death for sleeping at my post. They put me into the guard-room and I expected to be shot the next day. It was a rotten feeling, I can tell you. I didn't think about myself so much as about the wife and the little boy. I wouldn't go through a night like that again for anything. But I went to sleep all the same. I woke up the next morning when someone came into the guard-room. I didn't know where I was for a second or two, and then in a flash I realized I'd got to die. I don't mind admitting that I rested my face against the wall and blubbered like a kid. Anyone would have done the same, I don't care what you say. But the man who'd just come in said:

"'Pull yourself together, old chap—you're all right for to-day, anyhow.' I sat bolt upright and stared at him.

"'They're not going to shoot me?'

"'Not to-day,' he answered. 'Cheer up, all sorts of things might happen before to-morrow.'

"The joy I felt was so big that I can't tell you how big it was. But I soon felt miserable again. I couldn't understand what had happened. I didn't know whether I was going to die or live. The uncertainty became so terrible that I wished I'd been shot that morning—all would have been over then. They brought me a meal, but I couldn't eat. I asked them what was going to happen, but they didn't know. Another night came, but I didn't get any sleep at all. I lay tossing about on my bed, now hoping, now despairing. I thought of home mostly, but once or twice I thought of the kids in the school where I taught—to die like this after the send-off they gave me! Still, they wouldn't know, they'd think I was killed in an accident, and that was some consolation to me. And the next morning—I can't bear to think of it—nothing happened: that was just the terrible thing about it—nothing happened. The day passed and then another day. At times I longed to be taken out and shot, and once or twice I felt I didn't care about anything. I didn't care whether I died or not. A week passed and then another week. I don't know how I lived through it. Then, one day, I was told to pack up and rejoin my unit. I don't know exactly what I did, but I think I must have gone hysterical. I remember some N.C.O. saying I ought to stay a bit because I wasn't well enough to go up the line. He said he'd speak to the officer and get me a few days' rest. But the thought of staying in that place made me shiver. I said I was absolutely all right and went back to my unit.

"But I never found out what had happened—you see, I was only a common soldier, so they didn't trouble to tell me—until I got a letter from the Captain who was in charge of me when I was on that forty-three hour job. He said he'd heard I was in for a court martial for sleeping when on guard, so he wrote to our headquarters to tell them I'd worked forty-three hours on end and wasn't fit to do a guard after a spell like that. Then they must have made a lot of inquiries—I expect there's a whole file of papers about me at headquarters. Anyhow, that's how I got off—it's more than a month ago now. Well, yesterday morning I was put on guard again. I tried to get out of it, but the officer said I was swinging the lead and he wouldn't listen to any excuses. I told him I'd had insomnia overnight and could hardly keep my eyes open. I said I'd do anything rather than a guard—a fatigue job or a patrol, no matter how dangerous, as long as it kept me on the move. The very thought of doing a guard made me tremble all over. He swore at me and said he'd heard these tales before and told me to shut up and get on with it. Well, I had to stand in the trench in front of a steel plate with holes in it through which I had to peer. It was just about daybreak. There was a tree growing about fifty yards off. It had been knocked about pretty badly, but there were plenty of leaves left on it. I stared at it, trying hard to keep awake. But soon the trunk began to quiver, then it wobbled with a wavy motion like a snake. Then the leafy part seemed to shoot out in all directions until there was nothing but a green blur, and I fell back against the trench wall and my rifle clattered down. I pulled myself together, absolutely mad with fear, because I kept on thinking of the last time I went on guard and the court martial and the death sentence. I ground my teeth and stared at the tree again. But the trunk began to wobble with snaky undulations and the green blur grew bigger and bigger in sudden jerks, while I tried frantically and desperately to keep it small. But it got the better of me and all at once it obscured everything with a rush and I dropped forward and knocked my forehead against the steel plate. I pulled myself together and prayed for a Blighty or something that would get me out of this misery. I looked at my watch—O God, only five minutes had gone, one-twelfth of my time! I had a kind of panic then and I dashed my head wildly against the trench wall and I bit my lips—I almost enjoyed the pain. I looked through the hole. The tree was steady at first, but it soon began to wobble again. Then I said to myself: 'I don't care, I'll risk it, I won't look out, I'll just keep awake. I don't suppose any Fritzes will come along—I'll just peep through the holes from time to time so as to make sure.' I stamped on the duckboard and kicked the sides of the trench and jerked my rifle up and down just to keep myself awake. It was all right at first and I was beginning to think I would get over it somehow, but my feet soon felt as heavy as lead and my head began to swim until I fell forward once again. Jesus Christ—I didn't know what to do. I thought of looking at my watch, but I hadn't the courage at first. Besides, I felt the seconds would slip by while I was hesitating and so I'd gain at least a little time. I counted the seconds—one, two, three ... four ... five ... six ... my head dropped forward and I nearly fell over. I looked at my watch—fourteen minutes had gone, nearly a quarter of an hour! That wasn't so bad. I felt a little relieved, but drowsiness came on again. I fought against it with all my strength, but with an agony no words can describe I realized that it was too strong for me. I pulled myself together with another despairing effort. I noticed that my clothing felt cold and clammy—I had been sweating all over...."

The theatre orderly burst into the waiting-room and shouted: "Are you all deaf? I've been yelling out 'Next man' the last five minutes, but you won't take no bloody notice. Send us two or three. The Colonel's in the theatre—he'll kick up a hell of a row if you don't get a move on."

We were scared and sent three men across. When they had gone, we asked to hear the end of the story.

"Well, I was absolutely desperate. I kept on looking at my watch, but the minutes crawled along. I believe I must have started crying once, but I don't know for certain, I was so sleepy that I don't remember half of what I did and what I dreamt—I know I did dream, it's funny how you can start dreaming even when you're standing up or moving about. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I kept on dropping off and pulling myself together. Suddenly, there was a terrific crash and a shell burst, it must have been forty or fifty yards off. I thought, bitterly, that there'd be no Blighty for me—no such luck. Then, high up in the air, I saw a big shell-fragment sailing along in a wide curve, spinning and turning. I looked at it—it was coming my way—Jesus Christ, perhaps I'd have some luck after all—and in any case a few more seconds would have passed by. It descended like a flash, I started back in spite of myself and held one hand out in front of my face. I felt a kind of numb pain in my right foot—nothing very bad. I looked down and, oh joy, I saw a big, jagged bit of shell imbedded in my foot. I tried to move it, but the pain was too great. Joy seemed to catch me by the throat, I began to dance, but such a pang shot through my leg that I had to stop. I dropped my rifle and hopped towards the dressing-station. I think it was the happiest moment in my life. I lost the sensation of weariness for the time being. But my foot began to hurt very badly and I got someone to help me along. My wound was dressed. I got on to a stretcher and I didn't know anything more until I was taken out of the motor ambulance here at the C.C.S. Anyhow, I'm all right now and I'm going to try and get across to Blighty and swing the lead as long as I can."

There was silence for a while. It had grown dark outside. But the call from the theatre sounded again. Gradually the waiting-room emptied itself until at last there were only two men left sitting in front of the fire. They both seemed depressed and gloomy. Then one of them broke the silence and said:

"We was goin' over when a 'eavy one burst. I didn't 'alf cop a packet in me shoulder. It's the third time too, an' I've got the wind up about goin' up the line agin when I'm out o' dock. The third time's yer last, yer know. Fritz'll send one over with me number on it, that's a bloody cert!"

"If yer number's up it's up," said the other, who had a big patch over his right ear. "If yer've got ter die yer've got ter die, an' it's no use worryin' about it."

Their turn came before long and I helped each one to get on to a table. Then I went over to the Prep. to see if any more walking wounded had arrived, but there were none at all.

I stood out in the open for a few minutes in order to breathe the fresh air. There was a roar and rumble of distant drum-fire. The trees behind the C.C.S. stood out blackly against the pallid flashes that lit up the entire horizon.

The mortuary attendant came walking along the duckboards.

As he passed by me he growled:

"There's a 'ell of a stunt on—there'll be umpteen slabs for the mortuary."



VI

AIR-RAIDS

It was a warm, sunny afternoon. About a dozen of us were pitching a marquee in leisurely fashion, when suddenly there was a shout of "Fritz up!"

We gazed at the sky, and, after searching for a while, saw a tiny white speck moving slowly across the blue at an immense height. Then, at some distance from it, a small white puff, like a little ball of cotton-wool, appeared. A few seconds passed and we heard a faint pop. More puffs appeared around the moving speck, each one followed by a pop. All at once, behind us, a bright tongue of flame flashed out above a group of bushes. There was a sharp report and a whizzing, rustling noise that died down gradually. Then another puff and another pop. The bright flames flashed out again in rapid succession. The little speck moved on and on. Grouped closely round it were compact little balls of cotton-wool, but trailing behind were thin wisps and semi-transparent whitish blurs. Above a belt of trees in the distance we observed a series of rapid flashes followed by an equal number of detonations. The upper air was filled with a blending of high notes—a whizzing, droning, and sibilant buzzing, and pipings that died down in faint wails. The little white speck moved on. It entered a film of straggling cloud, but soon re-emerged. It grew smaller and smaller. Our eyes lost it for a moment and found it again. Then they lost it altogether and nothing remained save the whitish blurs in the blue sky and a hardly audible booming in the far distance.

"I bet 'e's took some photographs—'e'll be over to-night. I reckon we're bloody lucky to be at a C.C.S."

"D'yer think 'e wouldn't bomb a C.C.S.?"

"Course 'e wouldn't—'e knows as well as what we do that there's some of 'is own wounded at C.C.S.'s."

"Yer've got some bleed'n' 'opes—do anythink, 'e would. Didn't yer see it in the papers? 'E bombed a French C.C.S. at Verd'n an' knocked out umpteen wounded."

"I bet that's all bloody lies—yer can't believe nothin' what's in the papers."

"Can't yer! If yer don't it's because yer don't want ter. I believe yer a bleed'n' Fritz yerself, always stickin' up fer the bastard. Everythink what's in the papers is true—the Government wouldn't allow it if it wasn't! That's got yer, ain't it?"

"Yer want ter look at it a bit more broad-minded. Course 'e makes mistakes sometimes like anybody else—'ow do 'e know it's a C.C.S.—'e can't see no Red Crorss at night?"

"Mistakes be blowed—'e knows what's what, you take my word for it ..."

We gathered idly round the disputants, glad of a distraction that would help to pass the time. A third person joined in the argument:

"If 'e bombs 'orspitals an' C.C.S.'s it's our own bloody fault. Look at our C.C.S. 'ere. There's a ordnance park and a R.E. dump up the road. There's a railway in front an' a sidin' where troops is always detrainin'. Then there's a gas dump over yonder. An' if we're bloody fools an' leave the lights on at night, 'ow can 'e tell what's what when everything's mixed up together? Why the bloody 'ell don't they put C.C.S.'s away from dumps an' railways? Why don't they stick 'em right in the fields somewhere? I bet we'll cop it one o' these nights, an' serve us right too."

German aeroplanes had passed overhead almost every clear windless night, but the buzz of propellers, that often went on for hours, and the dull boom of bombs exploding far away had never caused anything more than slight uneasiness and apprehension.

One night, after we had been at the C.C.S. for about a month, we heard the uproar of a distant air-raid. Early the next morning a number of motor-ambulances arrived with their loads of wounded men. A camp, a mile or two from the station, had been bombed and fifty men had been killed and many more wounded. One of the "cases" brought into the theatre had been hit on the forehead. The bomb-fragment had not penetrated the skull, but had passed along its surface. The scalp hung over the forehead loosely like an enormous flap, the red, jagged edge nearly touching the eyebrows. Since then I thought of this man every time there was an air-raid.

The event increased our uneasiness. After each "bombing-stunt" we thought: "We were lucky this time—it will be our turn next though." Moreover, we began to realize our helplessness. We were compelled to remain in our tents during a raid and there was no possibility of taking shelter. We could have put on our steel helmets—they would at least have afforded some head protection, but hardly any of us had the courage to do anything that might be regarded by the others as a sign of fear.

The discussion about the bombing of hospitals had made us all think of air-raids. We had nearly finished our day's work when we noticed a few clouds on the horizon. We felt relieved. Perhaps the sky would be overcast and we would have an undisturbed night.

"I can't stick night raids," said one of our number. "They don't put my wind up a bit, but they interfere with my sleep and make me feel tired in the mornings."

A man who had been in the war from the beginning answered:

"I can see you haven't been out here long, and have never been in a proper raid. I'll never forget the last time we were bombed. We were out on rest about fifteen miles behind the line. Fritz came over and I had the wind up so badly that I left the tent to go into the open fields. (I'd had a taste of it before, you know, and that makes all the difference.) Then he bombed us before I knew where I was. I ran for my life. There was a hell of a crash behind me and a bit caught me in the shoulder and knocked me down. When it was all over I got up and went back, although my shoulder hurt like anything. A lot of our fellows were running about and shouting. Where my tent used to be, there was a big bomb-hole and my mates were lying dead all round—fourteen of them. I didn't recognize most of them, they were so smashed up. Fritz had dropped one right on the tent. I reckon I was lucky to get off with a Blighty! I was in hospital six weeks and then I got ten days' sick leave in London. Fritz came over one night—Christ, I didn't half have the wind up! We were sitting in the kitchen, mother and father didn't seem to mind much—they didn't know what it meant. Fritz had never dropped any our way before. I never heard such a barrage, at least not for aeroplanes. It wasn't so bad as out here all the same—you could take shelter, anyhow. Air-raids are bloody awful things, they put my wind up much more than shell-fire."

We finished our work as the sun was setting. The clouds on the horizon had vanished. One by one the stars came out. It was "an ideal night for a raid."

Soon after dark a man was brought into the station with a crushed knee. Immediate operation was necessary. He was carried into the theatre and laid on to one of the tables. He received an anaesthetic and became unconscious. With his scalpel the surgeon made a deep cut in the knee-joint and searched the cavity with his finger. There was a Sister standing by. Also an orderly who had won the Military Medal for bravery in an air-raid some months before. Suddenly there was an outburst of anti-aircraft firing and a tumultuous whistling of shells overhead. It lasted for several seconds and then with a deafening, reverberating thunder-clap that shook the entire theatre, the first bomb fell. Before our ears had ceased drumming another bomb exploded and then another. The orderly, who had held his hands in front of his face, now gave way to fear. He darted madly to and fro and then scuttled beneath a table. The Sister, who had remained quite calm, said in an amused voice: "Pull yourself together, it's all over now." The orderly got up trembling, his face very white. The surgeon had not moved away. He had just grasped the edge of the table tightly and had bent his head forward, while his muscles seemed stiff with a violent but successful effort at self-control. The anaesthetist, too, had remained on his stool, but was leaning right over his patient. I had been conscious of a powerful impulse to duck down, but I grasped the table and gave way to the impulse so far as to lean slightly forward. This compromise saved me from any violent expression of fear. The Sister was the only one of us who showed no sign of fear at all.

The surgeon went on with his work and extracted several fragments of bone from the injured limb. A few seconds passed and suddenly the electric light went out in accordance with the orders that decreed that all lights should be extinguished on the approach of hostile aeroplanes. The surgeon cursed loudly and the Sister fetched an electric torch which she held over the knee. The operation continued, but it was not long before anti-aircraft fire broke out once more. Then there was a weird bustling, rushing sound, followed by a roar that again shook the theatre and rattled the windows. Six explosions followed in rapid succession. This time the orderly controlled himself, for he knew the Sister was watching. Nevertheless, his knees trembled violently. The Sister held the torch steadily and the surgeon paused for a moment and went on with the operation as soon as all was quiet.

In a few minutes it was finished. The wound was dressed and bandaged and the patient carried away.

I stepped out into the clear night. The sky was thronged with glittering stars. Everything seemed strangely peaceful. I walked round the station, trying to find out where the bombs had fallen, but nobody knew. I went to the marquee and found Private Trotter sitting there, breathless and white. The neighbouring C.C.S. a few hundred yards away had been hit. A Sister and an orderly had been killed and several patients wounded.

"It didn't 'alf put me wind up," said Trotter, excitedly. "When the first'n drops I lays down flat on the duckboards and one bursts just aside o' me an' smothers me with earth. Then another'n bursts an' I 'ears a man 'oller out—krikey, 'e didn't 'alf scream. I gets up and another'n bursts, so I flops down agin, but it didn't come so near that time. I waits a bit an' then I gets up an' goes to see what they done. I couldn't see nothin' at first, but I sees some fellers runnin' about wi' lights. There was a noise in one o' the wards, so I goes in. A bomb must 'a' burst on the roof—there was a big 'ole in the canvas. The bed underneath was all twisted an' torn, but there wasn't nobody in it. There was some wounded lyin' in beds at the fur end of the ward, an' one of 'em was cryin' somethin' chronic. Then someone brings a light an' I sees an orderly lyin' by the side o' the bed with a big 'ole in 'is face an' the blood pourin' out. I goes roun' to the other side—gorblimy—an' there I sees the Sister lyin' on the floor with 'er 'ead blown clean off—I dunno where it was blown to, I couldn't see it nowhere. Krikey, it wasn't 'alf a sight to see 'er body without a 'ead lyin' in a pool o' blood. It made me feel sick, so I ran orf an' came 'ere."

Private Trotter was trembling in every limb. He was the pluckiest man I ever knew and capable of any piece of foolhardy daring. But this time he was near a nervous breakdown.

We went to bed full of anxiety. For a long while we lay awake, straining our ears to catch the sound of firing or the drone of German propellers. But no sound broke the stillness of the night, and one by one we dropped off to sleep.

The next morning was clear and sunny. The sky remained blue all day. Not a cloud could be seen. "Our turn next"—that was the thought in everybody's mind.

The evening was starlit once again. As we lay on the floor of the marquee, wrapped up in our blankets, we heard the sound of bombing and firing in the distance.

Clear days and clear nights followed each other. Sometimes a train would stop in front of the C.C.S., hissing and puffing, and throwing up a great shaft of light. We would curse it, fearing that it would attract German raiders.

If only the fine weather would come to an end! Give us wind and rain so that we could lie in bed without being oppressed by anxiety! But the sun continued to shine and the stars to glitter.

The disaster that had befallen the adjoining C.C.S., which had been brilliantly lit up during the raid, had acted as a warning example to us. At nightfall the windows of the theatre were screened with blankets and no lights were allowed to show in the wards or on the duckboards.

If only the trains would halt somewhere else at night-time!

One day a number of Flemish peasants began to collect hop-refuse in the surrounding fields. They made three great heaps of it and set fire to them. In the evening the heaps were burning brightly, but no one took any notice.

The canteen was crowded. All the benches were occupied and men who were unable to find seats stood around in groups. There was noisy conversation and singing and shouting. Nearly everyone was drinking beer. Those who sat at the tables were playing cards. The air was thick with tobacco-smoke. Two or three candles were burning on every table. And all at once, without any warning, the thunder was loosened upon us. There was an ear-splitting roar and in a moment candles were swept away, benches and tables overturned, and the whole crowd of men was down on the floor, trembling and panic-stricken. Another detonation, and then another, shaking the ground and reverberating, and sending up showers of stones and loose earth that came rattling down on to the canteen-roof, while the huddled, sprawling mass of human bodies shook and squirmed with terror. The droning of propellers could be plainly heard, then it grew weaker and weaker, until it passed away. One by one the men got up. Someone lit a candle. Tables, benches, and prostrate bodies had been thrown into confusion. Cards and coins and overturned beer-mugs littered the floor. The smell of spilt beer mingled with the smell of stale tobacco. A few of us stepped out into the open air. We inhaled a pungent, sulphurous stench. We were sure our camp had been bombed this time and were fearful lest any of our friends had been hit. We walked past the Church tent—it was full of rents and holes. And just beyond it was a huge pit with fresh soil heaped up in a ring around it. Loose earth and stones and sods were scattered everywhere. Then we saw something move in the darkness—it was a man on all fours, dragging himself painfully along and uttering a groan with every breath. Two bearers arrived with a stretcher. They put it down by his side and helped him on to it. Then they picked it up and disappeared in the gloom. We had hardly walked a few yards further when we saw a light approaching us. We went towards it. A man was staggering slowly along and leaning on the shoulder of a comrade who was carrying a lantern. He supported his right elbow with his left hand, down the back of which two thin streams of blood were winding. His left sleeve was darkly stained and the blood was dripping from it. His face was very pale and the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down.

Suddenly the broad white beam of a searchlight swung across the darkness. For a time it seemed to paw the sky in a hesitating fashion and then it remained fixed on one spot.

"There 'e is! There 'e is!" someone shouted in an excited voice.

In the white track was a brilliant silver object travelling along at a great speed. A number of anti-aircraft guns opened fire simultaneously, and all around the shining fugitive innumerable stars of pale, liquid gold flashed out and melted away again.

"I bet they're puttin' 'is bloody wind up! Rotten bastard, bombin' a lot o' wounded! If I get 'old of a Fritz up the line, I'll murder 'im. Yer won't catch me takin' no more pris'ners, I tell yer."

A flashing star suddenly seemed to envelop the aeroplane.

"Got 'im that time—bloody good shot—'e's comin' down, look, look, 'e's comin' down! Look, 'e's all in flames!"

But the aeroplane sped on, growing smaller and smaller. Then the white beam swung back and was extinguished, while the guns ceased firing.

"Fine lot o' gunners we got—couldn't 'it a Zep 'alf a yard orf! They ain't worth the grub they get!"

We returned to our marquee and sat down on our kits. My friend Private Black came in after us, smiling ruefully. I asked him what was the matter.

"I was playing the piano in the Sergeants' Mess when the first one dropped. We all jumped up together and rushed out. Then the second one burst and I lost my head and didn't know where I was going. I darted to and fro, tripping over tent-ropes and dashing up against revetments. I never had the wind up so much in all my life. I couldn't get my breath, there was a kind of weight on my stomach and a tightness round my chest and throat, and my knees kept on giving way all the time. The third one burst and I fell down and crawled under some ropes and lay flat against some sand-bags, trembling all over and feeling as though I was going to choke. I waited for a long time, but nothing happened, so I got up and looked round. Lucky escape for us! There's a terrific hole by the Red Cross and another one behind the bath-house. The third's in the next field. Only two men hit. O'Neil's got it in the elbow—he's all right for Blighty. Poor old Hartog's badly hurt—a frightful gash in the thigh with the piece still in it. I hope he won't have to lose his leg. Christ, I'm glad it's all over—I wouldn't like to go through that again."

There was silence for a while, but soon the silence was broken by the distant muttering of anti-aircraft fire.

"Jesus Christ Almighty—'e's comin' again—O God, why can't 'e leave us alone."

We stood outside the marquee and anxiously watched the horizon. We heard a faint humming noise. It grew louder and louder until it became a deep, droning buzz that rose and fell in regular pulsation. Then boom—boom—boom—three times the sullen roar of distant explosions sounded. Then there came the familiar rushing, whistling noise of a descending bomb. We flung ourselves down in the wet grass. I felt every muscle in my body contract as though I were trying to make myself as small as a pin point in expectation of the terrible moment. There was a dull thud close by and I felt the earth vibrate. The bomb had fallen a few yards away, but had merely buried itself in the earth without exploding.

There was no anti-aircraft fire, but the droning noise continued loudly, rising and falling. Private Trotter, who was lying beside me, was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips. Our fear of impending disaster was prolonged intolerably. The droning propeller seemed to be directly above us. I tried to analyse my feelings. If one finger is held close to the middle of the forehead a curious sensation of strain seems to gather in that spot. That was precisely the sensation I had at the back of my head and neck, only with far greater intensity. It was the concentrated, agonizing consciousness of the swift descent of a huge iron mass that will strike the base of the head and blow the whole body to pieces. In the region of the solar-plexus I had a feeling of oppression such as one often has before an examination, before jumping into an icy river, before opening a letter that may contain bad news. I also breathed more heavily than usual. I made no attempt to master these sensations. It occurred to me that fear is merely a physical reaction that cannot be avoided. If a man reacts so violently that he is overcome and rushes about as though he were demented, it is no more his fault than if he shivers with cold. A man can stop shivering by an effort of the will, but only to a certain extent. And no effort of the will can prevent him from feeling cold. In the same way, no effort of the will can prevent him from feeling fear, and only to a limited extent can the will control the outward manifestations of fear. Nevertheless, some distraction may enable a man to forget his fear for a while, just as it may enable him to forget the cold. I was so intent upon self-analysis that I lost consciousness of everything except my mental concentration, even of those sensations I was trying to analyse, for the very act of analysis was destroying them. As they grew weaker, the effort of my will increased. It became so great that I grew conscious of great mental tension and at the same time I realized that my fear had vanished altogether. For a brief space I had a sensation of vacuity as though I could neither think nor feel. Then my mental effort suddenly collapsed, I once more became aware of the droning overhead, and with a rush my former fears were upon me again. I pressed myself flat to earth. I heard the descent of a bomb. I trembled and tried to shrink to nothing. There was a deafening thunder-clap and the ground shook. A quantity of loose earth came down upon us. Another bomb descended—every muscle in my body tightened and I stopped breathing altogether. But the explosion that followed was fainter than the last. Then there was another, still further off. All my muscles gradually relaxed and a delicious feeling of relief pervaded my whole being. The buzzing noise became more and more feeble. I got up and walked back to the marquee, trembling and weak at the knees. The others followed.

Most of us went to bed, but a few continued to pace up and down in great agitation. One man picked up his blankets in a bundle and went off in order to sleep in the open fields, far away from the camp.

An hour had hardly passed before distant anti-aircraft fire broke out again. Anxiety began to renew its tortures. We heard the dull, sullen roar of bombs exploding at intervals. Then fourteen burst in rapid succession as though a gigantic ball of solid iron had bounced fourteen times with thundering reverberations on a resonant surface. But the sound of firing died down and soon all was quiet. And then sleep came upon us and our troubles were over for a time.

The next morning was windless and clear. All day we kept looking at the sky, but not a cloud was to be seen.

The evening approached, darkness fell, and the stars shone. "Lights Out" was sounded and we extinguished our candles. None of us said a word, but everybody knew what everybody else was thinking of. And soon we heard the familiar buzz. At first it only came from one propeller, but others arrived and the sound multiplied and increased in volume, and at the same time it rose and fell in irregular gusts and regular pulsations. Anti-aircraft firing burst out suddenly and for a few minutes there was a blending of whining, whistling, rushing sounds overhead punctuated by faint reports. The firing ceased, but the droning noises continued louder than ever. The German aeroplanes seemed to be above us like a swarm of angry wasps, and above us they seemed to remain, hovering and circling. We awaited the downward rush and the deafening thunder-clap that would destroy us all. One man was groaning loudly. Another shivered. I could hear the chattering of many teeth. My neighbour trembled violently and cowered beneath his blankets. But his fear grew so strong that he could not bear it any longer. He got up and said in a strained voice, trying to appear calm, "I'm goin' to 'ave a look at 'em." He ran out of the marquee and disappeared. I found my powers of resistance ebbing. I was unable to control my imagination. I saw my comrades and myself blown to pieces. I saw the clerk in the office of the C.C.S. write out the death-intimations on a buff slip and filling in a form. I saw a telegraph boy taking the telegram to my home. He stopped on the way in order to talk to a friend. Then he whistled and threw a stone at a dog. He sauntered through the garden gate and knocked at the front door. The door opened ... but I could not face the rest, and with a tremendous mental impulse I turned my mind away to other things. But my terrible thoughts lay in wait for me like tigers ready to rush upon me as soon as my will relaxed its efforts. I tried to compromise, and I imagined myself killed and invented all the details of a post-mortem examination and burial. I found some relief in these imaginings, but soon that implacable telegram claimed my attention once more and drew me on to what I dared not face. I sought distraction by muttering some verses of poetry to myself. They had no meaning to me, they were just empty sound and their rhythm had a hideous pulsation like that other pulsation overhead:

"He above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent Stood like a tower...."

and so on, line after line. The dreariness of the verses grew so intense as to be almost intolerable. At the same time I was dimly conscious of the fact that at one time I thought this passage beautiful. But the beat of the blank verse carried me on. Sometimes it seemed to blend with the buzzing of those angry wasps above and sometimes the two rhythms would vie with each other for speed, so that they hurried along each alternately ahead of the other. I came to a line where my memory failed me. I faltered for a moment, but the droning sound seemed to grow into an enormous roar, and I leapt back to the beginning:

"He above the rest...."

and then on and on a second time until my head throbbed with the double pulsation.

Suddenly a man who had been lying on the far side of the marquee got up and said:

"I've had enough of this, I'm going to sleep in a ditch."

He went off. The wasps were still buzzing, but the interruption had broken the spell. I felt a sense of relief. I became conscious of intense weariness and felt ashamed of my fears. I cursed the German aeroplanes and thought, "Let them do their worst, I don't care." I made up my mind to go to sleep and resolutely buried my face in my pillow. Then it occurred to me that I would never be able to enjoy Paradise Lost again, and I was half-amused and agreeably distracted by the trivial thought.