the same terrible
half-darkness here, the same expectant stillness. Now and then the
servants of the hospital look at each other and there are whisperings,
mutterings. They sound sinister somehow and inimical. Or perhaps I
imagine this because I do not take kindly to retreating. Anyhow I am
only aware of them afterwards. For now it is time to go and fetch Miss
Ashley-Smith and her three wounded men from the Convent.

Tom has come up with his first ambulance car. He is waiting for orders
in the porch. His enormous motor goggles are pushed up over the peak of
his cap. They make it look like some formidable helmet. They give an air
of mastership to Tom's face. At this last hour it wears its expression
of righteous protest, of volcanic patience, of exasperated discipline.

The Commandant is nowhere to be seen. And every minute of his delay
increases Tom's sense of tortured integrity.

I tell Tom that he is to drive me at once to the Couvent de Saint
Pierre. He wants to know what for.

I tell him it is to fetch Miss Ashley-Smith and three British wounded.

He shrugs his shoulders. He knows nothing about the Couvent de Saint
Pierre and Miss Ashley-Smith and three British wounded, and his shrug
implies that he cares less.

And he says he has no orders to go and fetch them.

I perceive that in this supreme moment I am up against Tom's
superstition. He won't move anywhere without orders. It is his one means
of putting himself in the right and everybody else in the wrong.

And the worst of it is he _is_ right.

I am also up against Tom's sex prejudices. I remember that he is said to
have sworn with an oath that he wasn't going to take orders from any
woman.

And the Commandant is nowhere to be seen.

Tom sticks to the ledge of the porch and stares at me defiantly. The
servants of the Hospital come out and look at us. They are so many
reinforcements to Tom's position.

I tell him that the arrangement has been made with the Commandant's
consent, and I repeat firmly that he is to get into his car this minute
and drive to the Couvent de Saint Pierre.

He says he does not know where the Convent is. It may be anywhere.

I tell him where it is, and he says again he hasn't got orders.

I stand over him and with savage and violent determination I say:
"You've got them _now_!"

And, actually, Tom obeys. He says, "_All_ right, all right, all right,"
very fast, and humps his shoulders and slouches off to his car. He
cran