All day the stretchers are brought in and the work goes on.  It is about 5 o’clock that the weird tired hour begins when the dim lamps are lighted, and people fall over things, and nearly everything is mislaid, and the wounded cry out, and one steps over forms on the floor.  From then till one goes to bed it is difficult to be just what one ought to be, the tragedy of it is too pitiful.  There is a boy with his eyes shot out, and there is a row of men all with head wounds from the cruel shrapnel overhead.  Blood-stained mattresses and pillows are carried out into the courtyard.  Two ladies help to move the corpses.  There is always a pile of bandages and rags being burnt, and a youth stirs the horrible pile with a stick.  A queer smell permeates everything, and the guns never cease.  The wounded are coming in at the rate of a hundred a day.

The Queen of the Belgians called to see the hospital to-day.  Poor little Queen, coming to see the remnants of an army and the remnants of a kingdom!  She was kind to each wounded man, and we were glad of her visit, if for no other reason than that some sort of cleaning and tidying was done in her honour.  To-night Mr. Nevinson arrived, and we went round the wards together after supper.  The beds were all full—­so was the floor.  I was glad that so many of the wounded were dying.

The doctors said, “These men are not wounded, they are mashed.”

I am rather surprised to find how little the quite young girls seem to mind the sight of wounds and suffering.  They are bright and witty about amputations, and do not shudder at anything.  I am feeling rather out-of-date amongst them.

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[Page Heading:  THE TRAGEDY OF PAIN]

Letter to Miss Macnaughtan’s Sisters.

DR. HECTOR MUNRO’S AMBULANCE,
FURNES, BELGIUM,
23 October.

MY DEAR PEOPLE,

I think I may get this posted by a war correspondent who is going home, but I never know whether my letters reach you or not, for yours, if you write them, never reach me.  I can’t begin to tell you all that is happening, and it is really beyond what one is able to describe.  The tragedy of pain is the thing that is most evident, and there is the roar and the racket of it and the everlasting sound of guns.  The war seems to me now to mean nothing but torn limbs and stretchers.  All the doctors say that never have they seen men so wounded.

The day that we got here was the day that Dixmude was bombarded, and our ten ambulances (motor) went out to fetch in wounded.  These were shoved in anywhere, dying and dead, and our men went among the shells with buildings falling about them and took out all they could.  Except where the fire is hottest one women goes with each car.  So far I have been doing ward work, but one of the doctors is taking me on an ambulance this afternoon.  Most of the women who go are very good chauffeurs themselves, so they are chosen before a person who can’t drive.  They are splendid creatures, and funk nothing, and they are there to do a little dressing if it is needed.