The parson belonging to our convoy is a particularly nice young fellow.  I have had a bad cold lately, and every night he puts a hot-water bottle in my bed.  When he can raise any food he lays a little supper for me, so that when I come in between 12 and 1 o’clock I can have something to eat, a lump of cheese, plum jam, and perhaps a piece of bully beef, always three pieces of ginger from a paper bag he has of them.  Last night when I got back I found I couldn’t open the door leading into a sort of garage through which we have to enter this house.  I pushed as hard as I could, and then found I was pushing against horses, and that a whole squad of troop horses had been shoved in there for the night, so I had to make my entry under their noses and behind their heels.  Pinned to the table inside the house was a note from the parson, “I can’t get you any food, but I have put a bottle of port-wine in your room.  Stick to it.”

I had meant to go early to church to-day, but I was really too tired, so I am writing to you instead.  Now I must be getting up, for “business must be attended to.”

Well, good-bye, my dear.  I am always too busy to write now, so would you mind sending this letter on to the family?

Your loving sister,
S. MACNAUGHTAN.

* * * * *

December.—­Unexpected people continue to arrive at Furnes.  Mme. Curie and her daughter are in charge of the X-ray apparatus at the hospital.  Sir Bartle Frere is there as a guest.  Miss Vaughan, of the Nursing Times, came in out of the dark one evening.  To-day the King has been here.  God bless him! he always does the right thing.

6 December.—­My horizon is bounded by soup and the men who drink it.  There is a stir outside the kitchen, and someone says, “Convoi.”  So then we begin to fill pots and take steaming “marmites” off the fire.  The “sitting cases” come in first, hobbling, or carried on their comrades’ backs—­heads and feet bandaged or poor hands maimed.  When they have been carried or have stiffly and slowly marched through the entrance to the train, the “brancard” cases are brought in and laid on the floor.  They are hastily examined, and a doctor goes round reading the labels attached to them which describe their wounds.  An English ambulance and a French one wait to take serious cases to their respective hospitals.  The others are lifted on to train-stretchers and carried to the train.

[Page Heading:  A QUESTION OF STRETCHERS]

Two doctors came out from England on inspection duty to-day.  They asked if I had anything to report, and I made them come to the station to go into this matter of the different-sized stretchers.  It is agony to the men to be shifted.  Dr. Wilson has promised to take up the question.  The transport service is now much improved.  The trains are heated and lighted, and priests travel with the lying-down cases.

8 December.—­I have a little “charette” for my soup.  It is painted red, and gives a lot of amusement to the wounded.  The trains are very long, and my small carriage is useful for cups and basins, bread, soup, coffee, etc.  Clemmie Waring designed and sent it to me.