<h2><SPAN name="X" id="X"></SPAN>X.</h2>
<h4>With No.— Field Ambulance (2)</h4>
<h5>FESTUBERT, <span class="smcap">May 9 and May 16</span></h5>
<p class="center"><i>May 6, 1915, to May 26, 1915</i></p>
<p class="indented">
"We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing;<br/>
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.<br/>
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,<br/>
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour.<br/>
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;<br/>
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all."<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 10em;" class="smcap" >—Rupert Brooke.</span><br/></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>X.</h2>
<h4>With No.— Field Ambulance (2).</h4>
<h5>FESTUBERT, <span class="smcap">May 9 and May 16.</span></h5>
<p class="center"><i>May</i> 6, 1915, <i>to May</i> 26, 1915.</p>
<p>The noise of war—Preparation—Sunday, May 9—The barge—The officers'
dressing station—Charge of the Black Watch, May 9—Festubert, May
16—The French Hospital—A bad night—Shelled out—Back at a Clearing
Hospital—"For duty at a Base Hospital."</p>
<p><i>Thursday, May 6th</i>, 3 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—It was a very noisy day, and I
didn't sleep after 2 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> There is a good lot of firing going
on to-night.</p>
<p>A very muddy officer of 6 ft. 4 was brought in early yesterday morning
with a broken leg, and it is a hard job to get him comfortable in these
short beds.</p>
<p>Yesterday at 4 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span> I couldn't resist invading the garden
opposite which is the R.A. Headquarters. It is full of lovely trees and
flowers and birds. I found a blackbird's nest with one egg in. From the
upper windows of this place it makes a perfect picture, with the
peculiarly beautiful tower of the Cathedral as a background.</p>
<p><i>Friday, May 7th</i>, 1 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—The noise is worse than anywhere in
London, even the King's Road. The din that a column of horse-drawn,
bolt-rattling waggons make over cobbles is literally deafening; you
can't hear each other speak. And the big motor-lorries taking the
"munitions of war" up are almost as bad. These processions alternate
with marching troops, clattering horses, and French engines all day, and
very often all night, and in the middle of it all there are the guns.
Tonight the rifle firing is crackling.</p>
<p>Sir John French and Sir Douglas Haig have been up here to-day, and every
one is telling every one else when the great Attack is going to begin.</p>
<p>There are three field ambulances up here, and only work for two ( —th
and —th), so the —th is established in a huge school for 500 boys,
where it runs a great laundry and bathing establishment. A thousand men
a day come in for bath, disinfection, and clean clothes; 100 French
women do the laundry work in huge tubs, and there are big disinfectors
and drying and ironing rooms. The men of the F.A. do the sorting and all
the work except the washing and ironing. And the beautifully-cared-for
English cart-horses that belong to the F.A., and the waggons and the
motor ambulances and the equipment, are all kept ready to move at a
moment's notice.</p>
<p>Colonel —— showed me all over it this evening. It is done at a cost to
the Government of 7d. per man, washed and clothed.</p>
<p>My blackbird has laid another egg.</p>
<p><i>Friday, May 7th</i>, 10 <span class="smcap">p.m</span>.—A pitch-dark night, raining a
little, and only one topic—the Attack to-morrow morning.</p>
<p>The first R.A.M.C. barge has come up, and is lying in the canal ready to
take on the cases of wounds of lung and abdomen, to save the jolting of
road and railway; it is to have two Sisters, but I haven't seen them
yet: shall go in the morning: went round this morning to see, but the
barge hadn't arrived.</p>
<p>There are a few sick officers downstairs who are finding it hard to
stick in their beds, with their regiments in this job close by. There is
a house close by which I saw this morning with a dirty little red flag
with a black cross on it, where the C.-in-C. and thirty commanders of
the 1st Army met yesterday.</p>
<p>The news to-day of Hill 60 and the gases is another spur to the grim
resolve to break through here, that can be felt and seen and heard in
every detail of every arm. "Grandmother" is lovingly talked about.</p>
<p>The town, the roads, and the canal banks this morning were so packed
with men, waggons, horses, bales, and lorries, that you could barely
pick your way between them.</p>
<p>Since writing this an aeroplane has been circling over us with a loud
buzz. The sergeant called up to me to put the lights out. We saw her
light. There is much speculation as to who and what she was; she was not
big enough for our big "'Bus," as she is called, who belongs to this
place. No one seems ever to have seen one here at night before.</p>
<p>We are making flannel masks for the C.O. for our men.</p>
<p>Our fat little Gabrielle makes the most priceless soup out of the ration
beef (which none of us are any good at) and carrots. She mothers us each
individually, and cleans the house and keeps her wee kitchen spotless.</p>
<p>4 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—The 9.2's are just beginning to talk.</p>
<p>Here is a true story. One of our trenches at Givenchy was being pounded
by German shells at the time of N. Ch. A man saw his brother killed on
one side of him and another man on the other. He went on shooting over
the parapet; then the parapet got knocked about, and still he wasn't
hit. He seized his brother's body and the other man's and built them up
into the parapet with sandbags, and went on shooting.</p>
<p>When the stress was over and he could leave off, he looked round and saw
what he was leaning against. "Who did that?" he said. And they told him.</p>
<p>They get awfully sick at the big-print headlines in some of the
papers—"The Hill 60 Thrill"!</p>
<p>"Thrill, indeed! There's nothing thrilling about ploughing over parapets
into a machine-gun, with high explosives bursting round you,—it's
merely beastly," said a boy this evening, who is all over shrapnel
splinters.</p>
<p><i>Saturday, May 8th,</i> 9 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—This is Der Tag. Could anybody go
to bed and undress?</p>
<p>I have been cutting dressings all night. One of the most stabbing things
in this war is seeing the lines of empty motor ambulances going up to
bring down the wrecks who at this moment are sound and fit, and all
absolutely ready to be turned into wrecks.</p>
<p>10.30 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Der Tag was a wash-out, but it is to begin at 1.15
to-night. (It didn't!)</p>
<p>The tension is more up than ever. A boy who has just come in with a
poisoned heel (broken-hearted because he is out of it, while his
battalion moves up) says, "You'll be having them in in cartloads over
this."</p>
<p><i>Sunday, May 9th</i>, 1.30 <span class="smcap">a.m</span>.—The Lions are roaring in full
blast and lighting up the sky.</p>
<p>Have been busy to-night with an operation case who is needing a lot of
special nursing, and some admissions—one in at 11 <span class="smcap">p.m</span>., who
was only wounded at 9 o'clock. I hope these magnificent roars and
rumblings are making a mess of the barbed wire and German trenches.
There seems to be a pretty general opinion that they will retaliate by
dropping them into this place if they have time, and pulverising it like
Ypres.</p>
<p>5.25 <span class="smcap">a.m</span>.—It has begun. It is awful—continuous and
earthquaking.</p>
<p>9.30 <span class="smcap">a.m</span>.—In bed. The last ten minutes of "Rapid" did its
damnedest and then began again, and we are still thundering hell into
the German lines.</p>
<p>It began before 5 with a fearful pounding from the French on our right,
and hasn't left off since.</p>
<p>Had a busy night with my operation case and the others (he is doing
fine), and in every spare second getting ready for the rush. The M.O.'s
were astir very early; the A.D.M.S. came to count empty beds. It is
to-night they'll be coming in.</p>
<p>Must try and sleep. But who could yesterday and to-day?</p>
<p><i>Monday, May 10th</i>, 9.30 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—We have had a night of it. Every
Field Ambulance, barge, Clearing Hospital, and train are blocked with
them. The M.O.'s neither eat nor sleep. I got up early yesterday and
went down to the barge to see if they wanted any extra help (as the
other two were coping with the wounded officers), and had a grim
afternoon and evening there. One M.O., no Sisters, four trained
orderlies, and some other men were there. It was packed with all the
worst cases—dying and bleeding and groaning. After five hours we had
three-fourths of them out of their blood-soaked clothes, dressed, fed,
hæmorrhage stopped, hands and faces washed, and some asleep. Two died,
and more were dying. They all worked like bricks. The M.O., and another
from the other barge which hadn't filled up, sent up to the O.D.S., when
my hour for night duty there came, to ask if I could stay, and got
leave. At 11 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> four Sisters arrived (I don't know how—they'd
been wired for), two for each barge; so I handed over to them and went to
the O.D.S. to relieve the other two there for night duty. The place was
unrecognisable: every corner of every floor filled with wounded
officers—some sitting up and some all over wounds, and three dying and
others critical; and they still kept coming in. They were all awfully good
strewing about the floor—some soaked to the skin from wet shell holes—on
their stretchers, waiting to be put to bed.</p>
<p>One had had "such a jolly Sunday afternoon" lying in a shell hole with
six inches of water in it and a dead man, digging himself in deeper with
his trench tool whenever the shells burst near him. He was hit in the
stomach.</p>
<p>One officer saw the enemy through a periscope sniping at our wounded.</p>
<p>4 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—In bed. It seems quiet to-day; there are so few guns to
be heard, and not so many ambulances coming. All except the hopeless
cases will have been evacuated by now from all the Field Hospitals.
There was a block last night, and none could be sent on. The Clearing
Hospitals were full, and no trains in.</p>
<p>Those four Sisters from the base had a weird arrival at the barge last
night in a car at 11 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> It was a black dark night, big guns
going, and a sudden descent down a ladder into that Nelson's cockpit.
They were awfully bucked when we said, "Oh, I am glad you have come."
They buckled to and set to work right off. The cook, who had been
helping magnificently in the ward, was running after me with hot cocoa
(breakfast was my last meal, except a cup of tea), and promised to give
them some. One wounded of the Munsters there said he didn't mind nothink
now,—he'd seen so many dead Germans as he never thought on. As always,
they have lost thousands, but they come on like ants.</p>
<p>They have only had about seven new cases to-day at the O.D.S., but two
of last night's have died. A Padre was with them.</p>
<p>They had no market this morning, for fear of bombs from aeroplanes.
There's been no shelling into the town.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday, May 11th</i>, 6.30 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—In bed. I went to bed pretty
tired this morning after an awful night (only a few of the less
seriously wounded had been evacuated yesterday, and all the worst ones,
of course, left), and slept like a top from 10.30 to 5, and feel as fit
as anything after it.</p>
<p>The fighting seems to have stopped now, and no more have come in to-day.
Last night a stiff muddy figure, all bandages and straw, on the
stretcher was brought in. I asked the boy how many wounds? "Oh, only
five," he said cheerfully. "Nice clean wounds,—machine-gun,—all in and
out again!"</p>
<p>The Padre came at 7.30 and had a Celebration in each ward, but I was
too busy to take any notice of it.</p>
<p>One of these officers was hit by a German shell on Sunday morning early,
soon after our bombardment began. He crawled about till he was hit again
twice by other shells, and then lay there all that day and all that
night, with one drink from another wounded's water-bottle; every one
else was either dead or wounded round him. Next morning his servant
found him and got stretcher-bearers, and he got here.</p>
<p>I don't know how they live through that.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday, May 12th</i>, 6.30 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Slept very well. I hear from
Gabrielle that they have had a hard day at the O.D.S.; no new cases, but
all the bad ones very ill.</p>
<p>My little room is crammed with enormous lilac, white and purple, from
our wee garden, which I am going to take to our graves to-morrow in jam
tins.</p>
<p><i>Thursday, May 13th</i>, 11 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—Can't face the graves to-day;
have had an awful night; three died during the night. I found the boy
who brought his officer in from between the German line and ours, on
Sunday night, crying this morning over the still figure under a brown
blanket on a stretcher.</p>
<p>Of the other two, brought straight in from the other dressing station,
one only lived long enough to be put to bed, and the other died on his
stretcher in the hall.</p>
<p>The O.C. said last night, "Now this War has come we've got to tackle it
with our gloves off," but it takes some tackling. It seems so much
nearer, and more murderous somehow in this Field Ambulance atmosphere
even than it did on the train with all the successive hundreds.</p>
<p>We can see Notre Dame de Lorette from here; the Chapel and Fort stand
high up in that flat maze of slag-heaps, mine-heads, and sugar-factories
just behind the line on the right.</p>
<p>9 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>, <i>O.D.S.</i>—Everything very quiet here.</p>
<p>A gunner just admitted says there will probably be another big
bombardment to-morrow morning, and after that another attack, and after
that I suppose some more for us.</p>
<p>Another says that the charge of the Black Watch on Sunday was a
marvellous thing. They went into it playing the pipes! The Major who led
it handed somebody his stick, as he "probably shouldn't want it again."</p>
<p>It is very wet to-night, but they go up to the trenches singing Ragtime,
some song about "We are always—respected—wherever we go." And another
about "Sing a song—a song with me. Come along—along with me."</p>
<p>11 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Just heard a shell burst, first the whistling scream,
and then the bang—wonder where? There was another about an hour ago,
but I didn't hear the whistle of that—only the bang. I shouldn't have
known what the whistle was if I hadn't heard it at Braisne. It goes in a
curve. All the men on the top floor have been sent down to sleep in the
cellar; another shell has busted.</p>
<p>12.15.—Just had another, right overhead; all the patients are asleep,
luckily.</p>
<p>1.30 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—There was one more, near enough to make you jump,
and a few more too far off to hear the whistling. A sleepy major has
just waked up and said, "Did you hear the shells? Blackguards, aren't
they?"</p>
<p>The sky on the battle line to-night is the weirdest sight; our guns are
very busy, and they are making yellow flashes like huge sheets of summer
lightning. Then the star-shells rise, burst, and light up a large area,
while a big searchlight plays slowly on the clouds. It is all very
beautiful when you don't think what it means.</p>
<p>Two more—the last very loud and close. It is somehow much more alarming
than Braisne, perhaps because it is among buildings, and because one
knows so much more what they mean.</p>
<p>Another—the other side of the building.</p>
<p>An ambulance has been called out, so some one must have been hit; I've
lost count of how many they've dropped, but they could hardly fail to do
some damage.</p>
<p>5 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—Daylight—soaking wet, and no more shells since 2
<span class="smcap">a.m.</span> We have admitted seven officers to-night; the last—just
in—says there have been five people wounded in the town by this
peppering—one killed. I don't know if civilians or soldiers.</p>
<p>That bombardment on Sunday morning was the biggest any one has ever
heard,—more guns on smaller space, and more shells per minute.</p>
<p>Nine officers have "died of wounds" here since Sunday, and the tenth
will not live to see daylight. There is an attack on to-night. This has
been a ghastly week, and now it is beginning again.</p>
<p>The other two Sisters had quite a nasty time last night lying in bed,
waiting for the shells to burst in their rooms. They do sound exactly as
if they are coming your way and nowhere else!</p>
<p>I rather think they are dropping some in again to-night, but they are
not close enough to hear the whistle, only the bangs.</p>
<p>There is an officer in to-night with a wound in the hand and shoulder
from a shell which killed eleven of his men, and another who went to
see four of his platoon in a house at the exact moment when a percussion
shell went on the same errand; the whole house sat down, and the five
were wounded—none killed.</p>
<p><i>Saturday, May 15th</i>, 10 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Tension up again like last
Saturday. Another TAG is happening to-morrow. Every one except three
sick downstairs has been evacuated, and they have made accommodation for
1000 at the French Hospital, which is the 4th F.A. main dressing
station, and headquarters. All officers, whether seriously or slightly
wounded, are to be taken there to be dressed by the M.O.'s in the
specially-arranged dressing-rooms, and then sent on to us to be put to
bed and coped with.</p>
<p>Now we have got some French batteries of 75's in our lines to pound the
earthworks which protect the enemy's buried machine-guns, which are the
most murderous and deadly of all their clever arrangements, and to stop
up the holes through which they are fired. We have also got more
Divisions in it along the same front, and our heavy guns and all our
batteries in better positions.</p>
<p>Some more regiments have been called up in a hurry, and empty
ammunition-carts are galloping back already.</p>
<p>This morning I took some white lilac to the graves of our 12 officers
who "died of wounds." Their names and regiments were on their crosses,
and "Died of wounds.—F.A.," and R.I.P. It was better to see them like
that Pro Patria than in those few awful days here.</p>
<p>10.30.—Just admitted a gunner suffering from shock alone—no
wound—completely knocked out; he can't tell you his name, or stand, or
even sit up, but just shivers and shudders. Now he is warm in bed, he
can say "Thank you." I wonder what exactly did it.</p>
<p>The arrangements the — F.A. happen to have the use of at the French
Hospital, with its up-to-date modern operating theatre for tackling the
wounds in a strictly aseptic and scientific way within a few hours of
the men being hit, are a tremendous help.</p>
<p>Certainly the ones who pass through No.— get a better chance of early
recovery without long complications than most of those we got on the
train. And while they are awaiting evacuation to the Clearing Hospitals
they have every chance, both here and at the French Hospital, where all
the trained orderlies except two are on duty, and practically all the
M.O.'s. But, of course, there are a great many of the seriously wounded
that no amount of aseptic and skilled surgery or nursing can save.</p>
<p><i>Sunday</i>, 11.30 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span> <i>May 16th.</i>—They began coming in at 3.30,
and by 8 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span> the place was full to bursting. We managed to get
all the stretcher cases to bed, and as many of the others as we had beds
for, without sending for the other two Sisters, who came on at 8.15, and
are now coping. Most of them were very cheery, because things seem to be
going well. Two lines of trenches taken, all the wire cut, and some of
the earthworks down; but it is always an expensive business even when
successful—only then nobody minds the expense. There are hundreds more
to come in, and the seriously wounded generally get brought in last,
because they can't get up and run, but have to hide in trenches and
shell holes. One man, wounded on Sunday and found on Friday night, had
kept himself alive on dead men's emergency rations. They were all
sopping wet with blood or mud or both.</p>
<p>The —— lost heavily. I heard one officer say, "They drove us back five
times."</p>
<p>After breakfast I went to the Cathedral, and then boldly bearded the big
dressing station at the French Hospital, where all the dressings are
done and the men evacuated, armed with a huge linen bag of cigarettes,
chocolate, and writing-cases which came last night. I met the C.O., who
said I could have a look round, and then rowed me for not being in bed,
and said we should be busy to-night and for some time. It was very
interesting, and if you brought your reason to bear on it, not too
horrible.</p>
<p>Every corridor, waiting-room, ward, and passage was filled with them,
the stretchers waiting their turn on the floors, and the walking cases
(which on the A.T. we used to call the sitting-ups) in groups and
queues. No one was fussing, but all were working at full pitch; and very
few of the men were groaning, but nearly all were gruesomely covered
with blood. And they look pretty awful on the bare gory stretchers, with
no pillows or blankets, just as they are picked up on the field. Many
are asleep from exhaustion.</p>
<p>What cheered me was one ward full of last Sunday's bad cases, all in
bed, and very cheery and doing well. They loved the writing-cases, &c.,
and said it was like Xmas, and they wouldn't want to leave 'ere now.</p>
<p>A great many of this morning's had already been evacuated, and they were
still pouring in. One has to remember that a great many get quite well,
though many have a ghastly time in store for them in hospital.</p>
<p>The barge is in the canal again taking in the non-jolters.</p>
<p>Some stalwart young Tommies at No. 4 were talking about the prisoners.
They told me there weren't many taken, because they found one in a
Jock's uniform.</p>
<p>I've drawn my curtain so that I can't see those hateful motor ambulances
coming in slowly full, and going back empty fast, and must go to sleep.
I simply loathe the sight of those M.A.'s, admirable inventions though
they are. Had a look into a lovely lorry full of 100-lb. shells in the
square.</p>
<p>7 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Only one officer has died at the O.D.S. to-day, but
there are two or three who will die. They have evacuated, and filled up
three times already.</p>
<p>The news from the "scene of operations" is still good, so they are all
still cheerful. The difference to the wounded that makes is
extraordinary. That is why last Sunday's show was such a black blight to
them and to us.</p>
<p><i>Monday, May 17th</i>, 10 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—Another night of horrors; one more
died, and two young boys came in who will die; one is a Gordon
Highlander of 18, who says "that's glorious" when you put him to bed.</p>
<p>It was a long whirl of stretchers, and pitiful heaps on them. The
sergeant stayed up helping till 3, and a boy from the kitchen stayed up
all night on his own, helping.</p>
<p>In the middle of the worst rush the sergeant said to me, "You know
they're shelling the town again?" and at that minute swoop bang came a
big one; and we looked at each other over the stretcher with the same
picture in our mind's eyes of shells dropping in amongst the wounded,
who are all over the town. I hadn't heard them—too busy—but they
didn't go on long.</p>
<p>The Boches have been heavily shelling our trenches all day.</p>
<p>One boy said suddenly, when I was attending to his leg, "Aren't you very
foolish to be staying up here?" "Oh, sorry," he said; "I was dreaming
you were in the front line of trenches bandaging people up!"</p>
<p>Our big guns have been making the building shake all night. The Germans
are trying to get their trenches back by counter-attacking.</p>
<p><i>Tuesday, May 18th, is it?</i> 1 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>, <i>in bed</i>.—It has been
about the worst night of all the worst nights. I found the wards packed
with bad cases, the boy of 18 dead, and the other boy died half an hour
after I came on. Two more died during the night, two lots were
evacuated, and had to be dug out of their fixings-up in bed and settled
on stretchers, and all night they brought fresh ones in, drenched and
soaked with clayey mud in spadefuls, and clammy with cold.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday, May 19th, 12 noon.</i>—Mr —— has been working at No.— at
full pitch for twenty-four hours on end, and had just got into bed when
they sent for him there again. They are all nearly dead, and so are the
orderlies at both places; but they never dream of grousing or shirking,
as they know there's not another man to be had.</p>
<p>Two more officers died last night, and three more were dying.</p>
<p>The Padre came and had a Celebration in my ward. Three R.A.M.C. officers
are in badly wounded. They are extraordinarily good.</p>
<p><i>Friday, 21st May</i>, 3 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—Last night the rush began to abate;
no one died, and only one came in—a general smash-up; he died to-night,
and a very dear boy died to-day. I've lost count now of how many have
died,—I think about twenty-four.</p>
<p>The Guards' Brigade here went by to-night from the trenches to rest,
singing "Here we are again," and the song about "The girls declare I am
a funny man!"</p>
<p>11 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—The little Canadian Sister has just been recalled,
I'm sorry to say, but probably we shall get another one. Five Canadian
officers came in last night. The guns are making the dickens of a noise,
very loud and sudden. Yesterday they shelled the town again, and two
more <i>soldats anglais</i> were wounded.</p>
<p><i>Saturday, May 22nd</i>, 6.30 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>—Things have been happening at
a great pace since the above, and we are now in our camp-beds in an
empty attic at the top of an old château about three miles back, which
is No.— C.H., at ——.</p>
<p>Just as I was thinking of getting up yesterday evening they began
putting shells over into the town, and soon they were raining in three
at a time. My little room here is a sort of lean-to over the kitchen
with no room above it; so I cleared out to dress in one of the others,
and didn't stop to wash. Gabrielle came running up to fetch me
downstairs. At the hospital, which was only about 200 yards down the
road, the wounded officers were thinking it was about time Capt. ——
moved his Field Ambulance. One boy by the window had got some <i>débris</i>
in his eye from the nearest shell, which burst in my blackbird's garden,
or rather on the doorstep opposite. (That was the one that got me out of
bed rather rapidly.) The orders soon came to evacuate all the patients.
At the French Hospital, about six minutes away, three wounded had been
hit in a M.A. coming in, and the Officers' Mess had one (none of them
were in), and they were dropping all round it. Then the order came from
the D.D.M.S. to the A.D.M.S. to evacuate the whole of the —th, —th,
and —th Field Ambulances, and within about two hours this was done.</p>
<p>Everybody got the patients ready, fixed up their dressings and splints,
gave them all morphia, and got them on to their stretchers.</p>
<p>The evacuation was jolly well done; their servants appeared by magic,
each with every spot of kit and belongings his officer came in with
(they are in <i>all</i> cases checked by the Sergeant on admission, no matter
what the rush is), and the place was empty in an hour. The din of our
guns, which were bombarding heavily, and the German guns, which are
bombarding us at a great pace, and the whistle and bang of the shells
that came over while this was going on, was a din to remember.</p>
<p>Then we went back to our billet to hurl our belongings into our baggage,
and came away with the A.D.M.S. and his Staff-Major in their two
touring-cars. The Division is back resting somewhere near here. We got
to bed about 2 <span class="smcap">a.m.</span> after tea and bread and butter downstairs,
but slept very little owing to the noise of the guns, which shake and
rattle the windows every minute.</p>
<p>We don't know what happens next.</p>
<p>At about four this morning I heard a nightingale trilling in the garden.</p>
<p>2 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—In the Château garden. It is a glorious spot, with
kitchen garden, park, moat bridge, and a huge wilderness up-and-down
plantation round it, full of lilac, copper beeches, and flowering trees
I've never seen before, and birds and butterflies and buttercups. You
look across and see the red-brick Château surrounded by thick lines of
tents, and hear the everlasting incessant thudding and banging of the
guns, and realise that it is not a French country house but a Casualty
Clearing Hospital, with empty—once polished—floors filled with
stretchers, where the worst cases still are, and some left empty for the
incoming convoys. Over two thousand have passed through since Sunday
week. The contrast between the shady garden where I'm lazing now on rugs
and cushions, with innumerable birds, including a nightingale, singing
and nesting, and the nerve-racking sound of the guns and the look of the
place inside, is overwhelming. It is in three Divisions—the house for
the worst cases—and there are tent Sections and the straw-sheds and two
schools in the village. We had our lunch at a sort of inn in the
village. I've never hated the sound of the guns so much; they are almost
unbearable.</p>
<p>It is a good thing for us to have this sudden rest. I don't know for how
long or what happens next.</p>
<p>The General of the Division had a narrow escape after we left last
night. The roof of his house was blown off, just at the time he would
have been there, only he was a little late, but an officer was killed;
six shells came into the garden, and the seventh burst at his feet and
killed him as he was standing at the door. I'm glad they got the wounded
away in time. Aeroplanes are buzzing overhead. The Aerodrome is here,
French monoplanes chiefly as far as one can see.</p>
<p>10 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>, <i>in bed</i>.—We have now been temporarily attached to
the Staff here.</p>
<p>Miss —— has given me charge of the Tent Section, which can take eighty
lying down.</p>
<p><i>Whitsunday, 1915.</i>—In bed—in my tent, not a bell, but an Indian tent
big enough for two comfortably. I share with S——. We have nothing but
the camp furniture we took out, but will acquire a few Red Cross boxes
as cupboards to-morrow. It is a peerless night with a young moon and a
soft wind, frogs croaking, guns banging, and a nightingale trilling.</p>
<p>It has been a funny day, dazzling sun, very few patients.</p>
<p><i>Whit-Monday.</i>—Very few in to-day again. I have only six, and am making
the most of the chance of a rest in the garden; one doesn't realise till
after a rush how useful a rest can be. There has been a fearful
bombardment going on all last night and yesterday and to-day; it is a
continual roar, and in the night is maddening to listen to; you can't
forget the war. Mosquitoes, nightingales, frogs, and two horses also
helped to make the night interesting.</p>
<p>8.30 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>—Waiting for supper. Wounded have been coming in, and
we've had a busy afternoon and evening.</p>
<p><i>Wednesday, May 26th.</i>—No time to write yesterday; had a typical
Clearing Hospital Field Day. The left-out-in-the-field wounded (mostly
Canadians) had at last been picked up and came pouring in. I had my Tent
Section of eighty beds nearly full, and we coped in a broiling sun till
we sweltered into little spots of grease, finishing up with five
operations in the little operating tent.</p>
<p>The poor exhausted Canadians were extraordinarily brave and
uncomplaining. They are evacuated the same day or the next morning,
such as can be got away to survive the journey, but some of the worst
have to stay.</p>
<p>In the middle of it all at 5 <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> orders came for me to join
No.— Ambulance Train for duty, but I didn't leave till this morning at
nine, and am now on No.— A.T. on way down to old Boulogne again.</p>
<p><i>Later.</i>—These orders were afterwards cancelled, and I am for duty at a
Base Hospital.</p>
<h5>THE END.</h5>
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