Two of us got pails of hot water and set to work with swabs, scrubbing brushes and soap.  We mopped up the pools of blood and wrung our swabs out over the pails until the dirty water became dark red.  We scrubbed till our arms ached.  With our bare hands we brushed the bits of flesh, skin and bone into little heaps and threw them into the buckets, and these we emptied into a big tub after picking out the amputated limbs which we carried off to the incinerator to be burnt.  Within an hour and a half the theatre was clean and tidy.

A heap of blankets and articles of clothing had been left in a corner.  We loaded them on to a stretcher and carried them to a small tent some distance away, taking a candle with us.

We folded the blankets and stacked them carefully.  Some of them were clammy and slippery to the touch.  Others were hard and stiff.  The rank smell of stale, clotted blood was sickening.

The clothing we carried to the pack store, a large marquee, where we sorted it, putting great-coats, tunics and shirts on separate heaps.  I was holding a shirt when I became aware of a tickling sensation across one hand.  I hurriedly dropped the garment and lowered the candle so that I could see it distinctly.  It was swarming with lice.

We walked out into the darkness and made for our own marquee.  As we passed the prisoners’ ward an orderly called out from inside: 

“’Ere, just come in a minute.  ’Ere’s a Fritz been ‘ollerin’ out all the evenin’—­come an’ tell us what ’e wants.”

We went in.  The prisoners were lying on stretchers in two rows.  Most of them were asleep, but one was tossing about and crying in piteous tones: 

“Hab’ich noch’n Arm, oder hab’ich keinen?”

“’E’s bin at it for ’ours, pore bloke.  Arst ’im what ’e wants—­I ’xpect it’s somethin’ ter do with ’is arm what they took orf early in the evenin’.”

I asked the man what he wanted and noticed that his right arm had been taken off at the shoulder.  He was silent for a moment and looked at me with haggard eyes.  Then suddenly he wailed: 

“Kamerad, sag mir doch—­Comrade, tell me—­is my arm still there, or is it gone?”

“He wants to know if he’s still got his arm,” I said to the orderly, who turned to the prisoner and exclaimed:  “Arm bon, goot!”

“Aber ich fuehl ja nichts—­But I can’t feel anything—­for God’s sake tell me if it’s still there!—­Ach Gott, ach Gott, ach Gott.”

He buried his face in his pillow and sobbed hysterically.

I explained to him that it had been necessary to remove his arm, but that he would live and be well treated and see no more fighting.

He turned round and stared at me and then shouted jubilantly: 

“Jetzt weiss ich’s—­Now I know—­thank God, I shall live, live, live.  O du lieber Himmel, das Gluck ist zu gross.”

He gave a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction and closed his eyes and turned on his side to go to sleep.