Dr. Munro and Lieutenant de Broqueville mounted the steps of the Town Hall, followed by another brancardier and myself.  Gleeson was already taking down a stretcher.  He had a little smile about his lips.

A French officer and two men stood under the broken archway of the entrance between the fallen pillars and masonry.  A yard away from them lay a dead soldier—­a handsome young man with clear-cut features turned upwards to the gaping roof.  A stream of blood was coagulating round his head, but did not touch the beauty of his face.  Another dead man lay huddled up quite close, and his face was hidden.

“Are there any wounded here, sir?” asked our young lieutenant.

The other officer spoke excitedly.  He was a brave man, but could not hide the terror of his soul because he had been standing so long waiting for death which stood beside him but did not touch him.  It appeared from his words that there were several wounded men among the dead, down in the cellar.  He would be obliged to us if we could rescue them.  We stood on some steps looking down into that cellar.  It was a dark hole—­illumined dimly by a lantern, I think.  I caught sight of a little heap of huddled bodies.  Two soldiers still unwounded, dragged three of them out, handed them up, delivered them to us.  The work of getting those three men into the first ambulance seemed to us interminable.  It was really no more than fifteen to twenty minutes, while they were being arranged.

During that time Dr. Munro was moving about the square in a dreamy sort of way, like a poet meditating on love or flowers in May.  Lieutenant de Broqueville was making inquiries about other wounded in other houses.  I lent a hand to one of the stretcher-bearers.  What others were doing I don’t know, except that Gleeson’s calm face made a clear-cut image on my brain.  I had lost consciousness of myself.  Something outside myself, as it seemed, was talking now that there was no way of escape, that it was monstrous to suppose that all these bursting shells would not smash the ambulances to bits and finish the agony of the wounded, and that death is very hideous.  I remember thinking also how ridiculous it is for men to kill each other like this, and to make such hells.

Then Lieutenant de Broqueville spoke a word of command.  “The first ambulance must now get back.”

I was with the first ambulance, in Gleeson’s company.  We had a full load of wounded men—­and we were loitering.  I put my head outside the cover and gave the word to the chauffeur.  As I did so a shrapnel bullet came past my head, and, striking a piece of ironwork, flattened out and fell at my feet.  I picked it up and put it in my pocket—­though God alone knows why, for I was not in search of souvenirs.  So we started with the first ambulance, through those frightful streets again, and out into the road to the country.

“Very hot,” said one of the men.  I think it was the chauffeur.  Somebody else asked if we should get through with luck.