the vileness of a German prison hospital. Hildegarde had her troubles
too, for she had not heard for two years of her lover in Germany, whose
mild and bespectacled face peered from a photograph in her room. He did
not look to be made of heroic mould, but who can tell? Long ago he may
have bitten the dust of Flanders or found another sweetheart to console
him. And the native hospital boys, swift to recognise the changes of war
and the comparative leniency of British discipline, got out of hand and
failed to clean and scrub as they did in former days. Then I would
inquire and uphold Hildegarde, and the recalcitrant Mahomed would be
marched off to receive fifteen of the best from the Provost Sergeant.




MY OPERATING THEATRE IN MOROGORO


"Jambo bwona," and the sycophantic Ali would leap to his feet and raise
the dirty red fez that adorned his head. "Jambo," said Nazoro, the
senior boy, standing to attention. For Nazoro was a Wanyamwezi from Lake
Tanganyika and disdained any of Ali's dodges to conciliate me. Graceful
as a deer was Nazoro, and a good Askari lost in a better operating-room
boy. This was my morning greeting as I peeped in before breakfast to see
that the operating theatre was swept and garnished for the day's work.
"Good morning," said Elizabeth, looking up from the steriliser where she
was preparing instruments for the morning operations.

Educated partly in England and speaking the language perfectly, she
hated us only a little less than the other Germans. But she was good at
her job and conscientious, and a very great help to us. Always as