with such a rush as this.  Ward equipment cannot be got at a moment’s notice, and the bulk of it had not yet arrived.  We only possessed a dozen folding beds, in which some of the worst cases were placed.  The others had to lie on straw on the floor, and so closely were they packed that it was only with the greatest care that one could thread one’s way across the ward.  How the nurses ever managed to look after their patients is beyond my comprehension, but they were magnificent.  They rose to the emergency as only Englishwomen can, and there is not one of those unfortunate men who will not remember with gratitude their sympathy and their skill.

During these first days a terrific fight was going on around Dixmude and Nieuport, and it was a very doubtful question how long it would be possible for the Belgian and French troops to withstand the tremendous attacks to which they were being subjected.  The matter was so doubtful that we had to hold ourselves in readiness to clear out from the hospital at two hours’ notice, whilst our wounded were taken away as fast as we could get them into what one can only describe as a portable condition.  It was a physical impossibility for our wards to hold more than a hundred and fifty patients, even when packed close together side by side on the floor, and as I have said, three hundred and fifty were dealt with in the first four days.  This meant that most of them spent only twenty-four hours in the hospital, and as we were only sent cases which could not, as they stood, survive the long train journey to Calais, this meant that they were often taken on almost immediately after serious operations.  Several amputations of the thigh, for example, were taken away next day, and many of them must have spent the next twenty-four hours in the train, for the trains were very tardy in reaching their destination.  It is not good treatment, but good surgery is not the primary object of war.  The fighting troops are the first consideration, and the surgeon has to manage the best way he can.

One of the most extraordinary cases we took in was that of the editor of a well-known sporting journal in England.  He had shown his appreciation of the true sporting instinct by going out to Belgium and joining the army as a mitrailleuse man.  If there is one place where one may hope for excitement, it is in an armoured car with a mitrailleuse.  The mitrailleuse men are picked dare-devils, and their work takes them constantly into situations which require a trained taste for their enjoyment.  Our friend the editor was out with his car, and had got out to reconnoitre, when suddenly some Germans in hiding opened fire.  Their first shot went through both his legs, fracturing both tibiae, and he fell down, of course absolutely incapable of standing, just behind the armoured car.  Owing to some mistake, an officer in the car gave the order to start, and away went the car.  He would have been left to his fate, but suddenly realizing how desperate his position was, he threw up his hand and caught hold of one of the rear springs.  Lying on his back and holding on to the spring, he was dragged along the ground, with both his legs broken, for a distance of about half a mile.