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