I was on night duty once more in the typhoid wards with Sister Moring
when we had our third bad Zeppelin raid, which was described in the
papers as "the biggest attempted since the beginning of the war." It
certainly was a wonderful sight.

The tocsin was rung in the _Place d'Armes_ about 11.30 p.m. followed by
heavy gunfire from our now more numerous defences. Almost simultaneously
bomb explosions could be heard. We hastily wrapped up what patients were
well enough to move, and the orderlies carried them to the "cave."
Returning across the yard one of them called out that there were three
Zeppelins this time, but though the searchlights were playing, we saw no
sign of them, and presently the "all clear" was sounded.

We had just got the patients from the _cave_ back into bed again when
half an hour later a second alarm was heard. Our feelings on hearing
this could only be described as "terse," a favourite F.A.N.Y.
expression. If only the brutes would leave Hospitals alone instead of
upsetting the patients like this.

The sky presented a wonderful spectacle. Half a dozen searchlights were
playing, and shells were continually bursting in mid-air with a dull
roar. On our way back from the _cave_ where we had again deposited the
patients, the searchlights suddenly focussed all three Zeppelins. There
they were like huge silver cigars gleaming against the stars. They
looked so splendid I couldn't help wishing I was up in one. It seemed
impossible to connect death-dealing bombs with those floating silver
shapes. Shrapnel burst all round them, and then the Zepps. seemed
suddenly to become alive, and they answered with machine guns, and the