28 September.—­Last night I and two orderlies slept over at the hospital as more wounded were expected.  At 11 p.m. word came that “les blesses” were at the gate.  Men were on duty with stretchers, and we went out to the tram-way cars in which the wounded are brought from the station, twelve patients in each.  The transit is as little painful as possible, and the stretchers are placed in iron brackets, and are simply unhooked when the men arrive.  Each stretcher was brought in and laid on a bed in the ward, and the nurses and doctors undressed the men.  We orderlies took their names, their “matricule” or regimental number, and the number of their bed.  Then we gathered up their clothes and put corresponding numbers on labels attached to them—­first turning out the pockets, which are filled with all manner of things, from tins of sardines to loaded revolvers.  They are all very pockety, but have to be turned out before the clothes are sent to be baked.

We arranged everything, and then got Oxo for the men, many of whom had had nothing to eat for two days.  They are a nice-looking lot of men and boys, with rather handsome faces and clear eyes.  Their absolute exhaustion is the most pathetic thing about them.  They fall asleep even when their wounds are being dressed.  When all was made straight and comfortable for them, the nurses turned the lights low again, and stepped softly about the ward with their little torches.

A hundred beds all filled with men in pain give one plenty to think about, and it is during sleep that their attitudes of suffering strike one most.  Some of them bury their heads in their pillows as shot partridges seek to bury theirs amongst autumn leaves.  Others lie very stiff and straight, and all look very thin and haggard.  I was struck by the contrast between the pillared concert-hall where they lie, with its platform of white paint and decorations, and the tragedy of suffering which now fills it.

At 2 a.m. more soldiers were brought in from the battlefield, all caked with dirt, and we began to work again.  These last blinked oddly at the concert-hall and nurses and doctors, but I think they do not question anything much.  They only want to go to sleep.

[Page Heading:  A visit from some deserters]

I suppose that women would always be tender-hearted towards deserters.  Three of them arrived at the hospital to-day with some absurd story about having been told to report themselves.  We got them supper and a hot bath and put them to bed.  One can’t regret it.  I never saw men sleep as they did.  All through the noise of the wounded being brought in, all through the turned-up lights and bustle they never even stirred, but a sergeant discovered them, and at 3 a.m. they were marched away again.  We got them breakfast and hot tea, and at least they had had a few hours between clean sheets.  These men seem to carry so much, and the roads are heavy.