The cover afforded by this so-called wood was extremely slight, and the
troops were concentrating for the innumerable attacks and
counter-attacks which were taking place under shell fire. This caused
the surgeon in charge of the cellar to describe the wood as our main
supply station!

I entered the cellar at 8 a.m., taking advantage of a partial lull in
the shelling, but a machine-gun bullet viciously flipped into a wooden
beam at the entrance as I ducked to go in. I was not sorry to get
underground. A sloping path brought me into the cellar, on one side of
which sappers were digging away the earth to increase the
accommodation.

The illumination consisted of candles set in bottles and some electric
hand lamps. The centre of the cellar was occupied by two portable
operating tables, rarely untenanted during the three hours I spent in
this hell.

The atmosphere--for there was no ventilation--stank of sweat, blood,
and chloroform.

By a powerful effort I countered my natural tendency to vomit, and
looked around me. The sides of the cellar were lined with figures on
stretchers. Some lay still and silent, others writhed and groaned. At
intervals, one of the attendants would call the doctor's attention to
one of the still forms. A hasty examination ensued, and the stretcher
and its contents were removed. A few minutes later the stretcher--
empty--returned. The surgeon explained to me that there was no room
for corpses in the cellar; business, he genially remarked, was too