the first case. The reception room is a concert or music hall in happier
days. Its stage is the dispensary, and the little room where the
performers 'make-up' is the mortuary. The doctor is joined by the sister
on night duty. Each man is examined rapidly in turn. The M.O., or the
doctor at the dressing station, has written some words about the nature
of the wound on a label very like a luggage label, and this has been
tied to a button-hole. An orderly comes forward and takes down
particulars: name, number, battalion, brigade, division. Jock is rather
tired of giving this information because he has already had it taken
down by his M.O., and at the dressing station. But he need not begin to
complain yet, for it will be repeated at every stopping-place. He is
carried off to another room. The third stage is over.

Jock is here a fortnight, for he is badly wounded and occupies one of
the few beds that the station boasts. One day he is borne, rather white,
into the operating theatre, and after a time is carried back, even
whiter than before. He has seen less of it than any one; saw only the
white walls and the mosquito curtains; smelled the heavy odours of ether
and chloroform and antiseptics; heard faintly and more faintly the drone
of an aeroplane overhead; saw also the padre, rather white too, but
determined to get accustomed to this sort of thing, in case they should
be short-handed when the great 'push' comes.

Jock cannot go by train because he could not stand the jolting, so he
must wait for a barge. He listens with evident pleasure to the
description of the electric lights and fans and white sheets and
pillows. There are six sisters in the station. They are the first
English women he has seen since his last leave, and he is glad to hear
there will be two on the barge. A barge comes and goes, but no one tells
Jock that. He is told the barges are always a long time coming, which