extension of leave in order that he might see me. It was on the
strength of this message that the doctors at the Base Hospital
permitted me to take the journey several days before I was really in a
condition to travel.

I'm wondering whether he's gained admission to the platform. I lie
there in my bunk all eyes, expecting any minute to see him enter. Time
and again I mistake the blue serge uniform of the St. John's Ambulance
for that of a naval lieutenant. They come to carry me out. What an
extraordinarily funny way to enter London--on a stretcher! I've
arrived on boat-trains from America, troop trains from Canada, and
come back from romantic romps in Italy, but never in my wildest
imaginings did I picture myself arriving as a wounded soldier on a Red
Cross train.

Still clutching my absurd linen bag, which contains my valuables, I
lift my head from the pillow gazing round for any glimpse of that
much-desired brother. Now they've popped me onto the upper-shelf of a
waiting ambulance; I can see nothing except what lies out at the back.
I at once start explaining to the nurse who accompanies us that I've
lost a very valuable brother--that he's probably looking for me
somewhere on the station. She's extremely sympathetic and asks the
chauffeur to drive very slowly so that we may watch for him as we go
through the station gates into the Strand.

We're delayed for some minutes while particulars are checked up of our
injuries and destinations. The lying cases are placed four in an
ambulance, with the flap raised at the back so we can see out. The
sitting cases travel in automobiles, buses and various kinds of
vehicles. In my ambulance there are two leg-cases with most