The spectacle of men--particularly young men--who have given their sight
for their country is, to most observers, a moving one. Melancholy are
the reflections of the visitor who meets, for the first time, a
promenading party of our blind patients. It is the plain truth,
nevertheless, that the blind men themselves are far from melancholy. One
of the rowdiest characters we ever had in the hospital was totally
blind. The blind men's wards are notoriously amongst the least sedate. I
offer no explanation. I simply state the fact. I will fortify it by an
anecdote.

It came to pass that eight complimentary tickets for a Queen's Hall
matinée were received by the Matron, who in due course allotted them to
seven "D" Block patients. An orderly, detailed to take them to the
hall, completed the octette. Corporal Smith, the orderly in question,
recounted his adventures afterwards. "Never again," quoth he, "shall I
jump at a matinée job if there are blind chaps in the party. They're the
deuce."

You must understand that we hospital orderlies regard the task of
shepherding patients to an entertainment in town as an agreeable form of
holiday. I have had some very pleasant outings of that sort myself. But
not--I am thankful to recall, in the light of Corporal Smith's
narrative--with blind men. One-legged men are often a sufficient care,
in manoeuvring on and off omnibuses. Apparently helpless cripples have
a marvellous gift for losing themselves, entering wrong trains, and
generally escaping--as the hour for return draws nigh--from one's
custody. And the city seems to be full of lunatics ready to supply
alcohol or indigestible refreshments to the most delicate war-hospital
inmates. Even with ordinary patients the orderly's afternoon excursion