But the things that have been done are marvellous.  Surgery has not failed.  The stereoscopic X-ray and antitetanus serum are playing their active part.  Once out of the trenches a soldier wounded at the front has as much chance now as a man injured in the pursuit of a peaceful occupation.

Once out of the trenches!  For that is the question.  The ambulances must wait for night.  It is not in the hospitals but in the ghastly hours between injury and darkness that the case of life or death is decided.  That is where surgical efficiency fails against the brutality of this war, where the Red Cross is no longer respected, where it is not possible to gather in the wounded under the hospital flag, where there is no armistice and no pity.  This is war, glorious war, which those who stay at home say smugly is good for a nation.

But there are those who are hurt, not in the trenches but in front of them.  In that narrow strip of No Man’s Land between the confronting armies, and extending four hundred and fifty miles from the sea through Belgium and France, each day uncounted numbers of men fall, and, falling, must lie.  The terrible thirst that follows loss of blood makes them faint; the cold winds and snows and rains of what has been a fearful winter beat on them; they cannot have water or shelter.  The lucky ones die, but there are some that live, and live for days.  This too is war, glorious war, which is good for a nation, which makes its boys into men, and its men into these writhing figures that die so slowly and so long.

I have seen many hospitals.  Some of the makeshifts would be amusing were they not so pathetic.  Old chapels with beds and supplies piled high before the altar; kindergarten rooms with childish mottoes on the walls, from which hang fever charts; nuns’ cubicles thrown open to doctors and nurses as living quarters.

At La Panne, however, there are no makeshifts.  There are no wards, so called.  But many of the large rooms hold three beds.  All the rooms are airy and well lighted.  True, there is no lift, and the men must be carried down the staircases to the operating rooms on the lower floor, and carried back again.  But the carrying is gently done.

There are two operating rooms, each with two modern operating tables.  The floors are tiled, the walls, ceiling and all furnishings white.  Attached to the operating rooms is a fully equipped laboratory and an X-ray room.  I was shown the stereoscopic X-ray apparatus by which the figure on the plate stands out in relief, like any stereoscopic picture.  Every large hospital I saw had this apparatus, which is invaluable in locating bullets and pieces of shell or shrapnel.  Under the X-ray, too, extraction frequently takes place, the operators using long-handled instruments and gloves that are soaked in a solution of lead and thus become impervious to the rays so destructive to the tissues.