hastily converted into Hospital ships and the accommodation was very different from that of to-day.  All the cases from my ward were “stretchers” and indeed hardly fit to be moved.  I went down the companion way, and what a scene met my eyes.  The floor of the saloon was packed with stretchers all as close together as possible.  It seemed terrible to believe that every one[1] of those men was seriously wounded.  The stretchers were so close together it was impossible to try and move among them, so I stayed on the bottom rung of the ladder and threw the cigarettes to the different men who were well enough to smoke them.  The discomfort they endured must have been terrible, for from a letter I subsequently received I learnt they were three days on the journey.  In those days when the Germans were marching on Calais, it was up to the medical authorities to pass the wounded through as quickly as possible.

Often the men could only speak Flemish, but I did not find much difficulty in understanding it.  If you speak German with a broad Cumberland accent I assure you you can make yourself understood quite easily!  It was worth while trying anyway, and it did one’s heart good to see how their faces lighted up.

There were some famous characters in the Hospital, one of them being Jefke, the orderly in Ward I, who at times could be tender as a woman, at others a veritable clown keeping the men in fits of laughter, then as suddenly lapsing into a profound melancholy and reading a horrible little greasy prayer book assuring us most solemnly that his one idea in life was to enter the Church.  Though he stole jam right and left his heart was in the right place, for the object of his depredations was always some extra tasty dish for a specially bad blesse.  He had the longest of eyelashes, and his expression when caught would be so comical it was impossible to be angry with him.

Another famous “impayable” was the coffin-cart man who came on occasions to drive the men to their last resting place.  The Coffin cart was a melancholy looking vehicle resembling in appearance a dilapidated old crow, as much as anything, or a large bird of prey with its torn black canvas sides that flapped mournfully like huge wings in the wind as Pierre drove it along the streets.  I could never repress a shiver when I saw it flapping along.  The driver was far from being a sorry individual with his crisp black moustaches bien frises and his merry eye.  He explained to me in a burst of confidence that his metier in peace times was that of a trick cyclist on the Halls.  What a contrast from his present job.  He promised to borrow a bicycle on the morrow and give an exhibition for our benefit in the yard.  He did so, and was certainly no mean performer.  The only day I ever saw him really downcast was when he came to bid good-bye.  “What, Pierre,” said I, “you don’t mean to say you are leaving us?” “Yes, Miske, for punishment—­I will explain how it arrived.  Look you, to give pleasure to my young lady I took her for a joy-ride, a very little one, on the coffin cart, and on returning behold we were caught, voila, and now I go to the trenches!” I could not help laughing, he looked so downcast, and the idea of his best girl enjoying a ride in that lugubrious car struck me as being the funniest thing I had heard for some time.