"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 anæsthetist 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 anæsthetist.
"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