watch the train pull out for Blighty, while the damage which was done
them in the fragment of a second is repaired.

At a Base Hospital you see something which you don't see at a Casualty
Station--sisters, mothers, sweethearts and wives sitting beside the
beds. They're allowed to come over from England when their man is
dying. One of the wonderful things to me was to observe how these
women in the hour of their tragedy catch the soldier spirit. They're
very quiet, very cheerful, very helpful. With passing through the ward
they get to know some of the other patients and remember them when
they bring their own man flowers. Sometimes when their own man is
asleep, they slip over to other bedsides and do something kind for the
solitary fellows. That's the army all over; military discipline is
based on unselfishness. These women who have been sent for to see
their men die, catch from them the spirit of undistressed sacrifice
and enrol themselves as soldiers.

Next to my bed there was a Colonel of a north country regiment, a
gallant gentleman who positively refused to die. His wife had been
with him for two weeks, a little toy woman with nerves worn to a
frazzle, who masked her terror with a brave, set smile. The Colonel
had had his leg smashed by a whizz-bang when leading his troops into
action. Septic poisoning had set in and the leg had been amputated. It
had been found necessary to operate several times owing to the poison
spreading, with the result that, being far from a young man, his
strength was exhausted. Men forgot their own wounds in watching this
one man's fight for life. He became symbolic of what, in varying
degrees, we were all doing. When he was passing through a crisis the
whole ward waited breathless. There was the finest kind of rivalry
between the night and day sisters to hand him over at the end of each