ed that his breathing was becoming
weaker and weaker. The anaesthetist shouted:

"Fetch the oxygen--look sharp!"

An orderly brought a long black cylinder along, but the rubber tubing
was knotted in a bundle and several seconds passed before it could be
disentangled. At last the end of the tube was pushed into the mouth of
the dying man. The tap of the cylinder was turned on, but there was no
sound of gas running through. The anaesthetist glared angrily around and
shouted: "Corporal Chamberlain!"

The Corporal came and the anaesthetist thundered:

"Go and get a new cylinder--this one's empty--your damned carelessness
again--look sharp about it."

It was the Corporal's business to see that the cylinder in the theatre
was always full. He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the cupboard
in which the reserve cylinders were kept, but he could not find it. He
walked out and searched in the shed opposite the theatre. He came back
without it.

"Hurry up for God's sake--the man's dying--it'll be too late in a
minute!"

He looked round the theatre with affected deliberation, for the angry
shouting of the anaesthetist had wounded his pride. At last he found the
key on a shelf. He unlocked the cupboard, fetched out a new cylinder,
and placed it beside the table. The tube was pushed into the open mouth,
the tap was turned, there was a rush of gas. But it was too late. The
man was dead.

"D'you see what you've done?" shouted the infuriated anaesthetist.
"Here's a man dead through your neglect. Don't you bloody well let it
occur again, else I'll put you under close arrest and have you up for a
court martial."

The Corporal walked sulking out of the theatre and muttered something
about a "bloody fuss."

One of the orderlies went to the door and shouted:

"Another slab for the mortuary!"--Those who died on the operating tables
were facetiously called "slabs."

Two bearers came in with a stretcher. The corpse was pushed on to it and
carried away to the mortuary. There it would be sewn up in an army
blanket, ready for burial. And then a telegram would be sent to a wife
or mother, informing her that her husband or son had "died of wounds
received in action."

There was amputation after amputation. The surgeons were tired of
cutting off legs and arms--it was "so monotonous and uninteresting," as
one of the sisters put it.

Then there came a little variety in the shape of a man with a bullet
wound in his throat. He brea