“Here, Crawford, here’s something for you!”

Captain Crawford was an abdominal specialist, at least he was particularly interested in abdominal cases, or “belly cases” as they were humorously termed.  Captain Wheeler, who had called him, was interested in knee cases.  Captain Maynard, who was working at the far end of the theatre, had a fondness for head cases.

“Such a delightful tummy, isn’t it?” said Captain Wheeler, who spoke in the affected drawl of our public schools and universities.

“Rather,” replied Captain Crawford, who had come over from his table holding a blood-stained scalpel in his hand.  He added: 

“Just my rotten luck—­I’ve only had amputations.”

He looked at the bulging entrail admiringly and went back to his work.  In a few minutes he was ready for the next case—­a man whose head was thickly swathed in bandages.

“That’s a bit of a change, anyhow—­I’m fed up with legs and arms.”

The bandages were removed.  Amid a mass of tangled, blood-clotted hair was an irregular patch where a piece of bone had been blown away, leaving the brain-matter exposed.

The Sister looked at it with eager curiosity and said: 

“A most interesting case.  I’m sure Captain Maynard would so love to see it!  Captain Maynard!”

“One moment, Sister!” He was busy with a delicate knee operation.  After a little delay he came over and inspected the damaged head.

“You’ve got all the luck,” he said.  “I haven’t had a decent head for ages.  Still, I s’pose we have to put up with these annoyances—­horrors of war, you know!” He laughed and the Sister smiled.  Then he went back to his knee while Captain Wheeler attended to the head.

It must not be supposed that the surgeons, sisters and orderlies of the ——­th C.C.S. were particularly cruel and heartless.  They were simply ordinary human beings and the ordinary human being, however he may be horrified by the first sight of wounds and suffering, soon gets used to them and accepts them as facts of everyday life.

It was growing dark outside and the electric light was switched on.  The wounded still arrived in multitudes.  Towards eight o’clock the day-shift came to an end and the night-shift began.  We had no time to clear the theatre.  The new surgeons continued where the old had left off.  They were in high spirits and set to work merrily, exchanging jokes all the time.

The bearers were utterly exhausted and several of them had blue rings round their eyes through lack of sleep.

“Poor bearers,” said one of the Sisters, “I do feel so sorry for them—­they have an awfully hard time!”

Captain Dowden—­another “head specialist”—­said to me: 

“Give the bearers a bit of a rest.  Go to the Prep. yourself and bring me a nice head case.”

I went accompanied by an orderly.  The Prep. was a long marquee and on either side was a long row of stretchers, one close up against another.  A man was lying on each, generally silent and motionless.  Only a few were groaning feebly.  We selected one whose head looked like a parcel of blood-sodden bandages.  We carried him into the theatre and laid him on to the table.