Ward after ward.  Rows of quiet men.  The occasional thump of a convalescent’s crutch.  The swish of a nurse’s starched dress.  The strangled grunt of a man as the dressing is removed from his wound.  The hiss of coal in the fireplace at the end of the ward.  Perhaps a priest beside a bed, or a nun.  Over all, the heavy odour of drugs and disinfectants.  Brisk nurses go about, cheery surgeons, but there is no real cheer.  The ward is waiting.

I saw a man who had been shot in the lungs.  His lungs were filled with jagged pieces of steel.  He was inhaling oxygen from a tank.  There was an inhaler strapped over his mouth and nostrils, and the oxygen passed through a bottle of water, to moisten it before it entered his tortured lungs.

The water in the bottle seethed and bubbled, and the man lay and waited.

He was waiting for the next breath.  Above the mask his eyes were fixed, intent.  Would it come?  Ah, that was not so bad.  Almost a full breath that time.  But he must have another, and another.

They are all waiting; for death, maybe; for home; for health again, or such travesty of health as may come, for the hospital is not an end but a means.  It is an interval.  It is the connecting link between the trenches and home, between war and peace, between life and death.

That one hospital had been a school.  The children’s lavatory is now the operating room.  There are rows of basins along one side, set a trifle low for childish hands.  When I saw them they were faintly rimmed with red.  There was a locker room too.  Once these lockers had held caps, no doubt, and overshoes, balls and other treasures.  Now they contained torn and stained uniforms, weapons, knapsacks,

Does it matter how many wards there were, or how many surgeons?  Do figures mean anything to us any more?  When we read in the spring of 1915 that the British Army, a small army compared with the others, had lost already in dead, wounded and missing more than a quarter of a million men we could not visualise it Multiply one ward by infinity, one hospital by thousands, and then try to realise the terrible by-products of war!

In that Calais hospital I saw for the first time the apparatus for removing bits of shell and shrapnel directly under the X-ray.  Four years ago such a procedure would have been considered not only marvelous but dangerous.

At that time, in Vienna and Berlin, I saw men with hands hopelessly burned and distorted as the result of merely taking photographic plates with the X-ray.  Then came in lead-glass screens—­screens of glass made with a lead percentage.

Now, as if science had prepared for this great emergency, operators use gloves saturated with a lead solution, and right-angled instruments, and operate directly in the ray.  For cases where immediate extraction is inadvisable or unnecessary there is a stereoscopic arrangement of plates on the principle of our familiar stereoscope, which shows an image with perspective and locates the foreign body exactly.