dribbling up by ones and twos into the
station yard, and were directed into sitting compartments.

The sun was in my eyes, and I felt as if my face was being scorched. I
asked an R.A.M.C.N.C.O., standing at the end of the wagon, to get me
something to shade my eyes. Then occurred what I felt was an extremely
thoughtful act on the part of a wounded man. A badly wounded
lance-corporal, on the other side of the lorry, took out his
handkerchief and stretched it over to me. When I asked him if he was
sure that he did not want it, he insisted on my taking it. It was
dirty and blood-stained, but saved me much discomfort, and I thanked
him profusely. After about ten minutes our stretchers were hauled out
of the lorry. I was borne up to the officers' carriage at the far end
of the train. It was a splendidly equipped compartment; and when I
found myself between the sheets of my berth, with plenty of pillows
under me, I felt as if I had definitely got a stage nearer to England.
Some one behind me called my name, and, looking round, I saw my old
friend M---- W----, whose party I had nearly run into the night before
in that never-to-be-forgotten communication trench, Woman Street. He
told me that he had been hit in the wrist and leg. Judging by his
flushed appearance, he had something of a temperature.

More wounded were brought or helped in--men as well as officers--till
the white walls of the carriage were lined with blood-stained,
mud-covered khaki figures, lying, sitting, and propped up in various
positions.

The Medical Officer in charge of the train came round and asked us
what we should like to drink for dinner.

"Would you like whisky-and-soda, or beer, or lemonade?" he questioned
me. This sounded pleasant to my ears, but I only asked for a lemonade.

As the train drew out of the station, one caught a last glimpse of
warfare--an aeroplane, wheeling round in the evening sky amongst a
swarm of tell-tale smoke-puffs, the explosions of "Archie" shells.

* * * * *

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

* * * * *

The following pages contain advertisements of a few of
the Macmillan books on kindred subjects.

Ambulance 464: Encore des Blesses

BY JULIEN H. BRYAN

_Illustrated. Cloth, 12mo._

Here we have the story of the experiences of a Princeton
Junior--a boy of seventeen, who went t