I was in Salle I at first—­the less serious cases—­and life seemed one eternal rush of getting “feeds” for the different patients, “doing mouths,” and making “Bengers.”  All the boiling and heating was done in one big stove in Salle II.  Each time I passed No. 16 I tried not to look at him, but I always ended in doing so, and each time he seemed to be thinner and more ethereal looking.  He literally went to skin and bone.  He must have been such a splendid man, I longed for him to get better, but one morning when I passed, the bed was empty and a nurse was disinfecting the iron bedstead.  For one moment I thought he had been moved.  “Where—­What?” I asked, disjointedly of the nurse.  “Died in the night,” she said briefly.  “Don’t look like that,” and she went on with her work.  No. 16 had somehow got on my mind, I suppose because it was the first bad typhoid case I had seen, and from the first I had taken such an interest in him.  One gets accustomed to these things in time, but I never forgot that first shock.  In the afternoons the men’s temperatures rose alarmingly, and most of the time was spent in “blanket-bathing” which is about the most back-aching pastime there is; but how the patients loved to feel the cool sponges passing over their feverish limbs.  They were so grateful and, though often too ill to speak, would smile their thanks, and one felt it was worth all the backaches in the world.

It was such a virulent type of typhoid.  Although we had been inoculated, we were obliged to gargle several times during the day, and even then we always had more or less of a “typy” throat.

Our gallant sergeant, sister Wicks, who had organised and run the whole of the three Salles since November ’14, suddenly developed para-typhoid, and with great difficulty was persuaded to go to bed.  Fortunately she did not have it badly, and in her convalescent stage I was sent to look after her up at the “shop window.”  I was anxious to get her something really appetising for lunch, and presently heard one of the famous fish wives calling out in the street.  I ran out and bargained with her, for of course she would have been vastly disappointed if I had given her the original price she asked.  At last I returned triumphant with two nice looking little “Merlans,” too small to cut their heads off, I decided.  I had never coped with fish before, so after holding them for some time under the tap till they seemed clean enough, put them on to fry in butter.  I duly took them in on a tray to Wicks, and I’m sure they looked very tasty.  “Have you cleaned them?” she asked suspiciously.  “Yes, of course I have,” I replied.  She examined them.  “May I ask what you did?” she said.  “I held them under the tap,” I told her, “there didn’t seem anything more to be done,” I added lamely.

How she laughed—­I thought she was never going to stop—­and I stood there patiently waiting to hear the joke.  She explained at length and said, “No, take them away; you’ve made me feel ever so much better, but I’ll have eggs instead, thank you.”  I went off grumbling, “How on earth was I to know anyway they kept their tummies behind their ears!”