he Y Road, and thence borne to one of the ambulances which are
always in waiting there, grim reminders of the work in hand.

My first impression of my ambulance driver was that I had fallen into
the hands of a Good Samaritan. He was most solicitous about the welfare
of the "head-case," and kept showering me with questions, such as: "Are
you comfortable, Mac?" (everyone in the Canadian Corps was "Mac" to the
stranger). "Tell me if I am driving too fast for you; you know, the
roads are a little lumpy round here." I didn't know it, but I was
quickly to become aware of the fact. His words and his driving did not
harmonize; if he missed a single shell-hole in the wide stretch of
France through which he drove, it was not his fault. I shall never
forget the agony of that drive; but at length, bruised and shaken, I
arrived at the Casualty Clearing Station at--but, no, I will not mention
its name; some of my readers may know the men who were there at the time
of my arrival, and there is pain enough in the world without
unnecessarily adding to the total. At the Clearing Station I learned two
things: First, that all the best souvenirs of the war are in the
possession of men who seldom or never saw the front line; and, secondly,
the real meaning, so far as the wounded "Tommy" is concerned, of the
letters R.A.M.C. The official records say they stand for the Royal Army
Medical Corps; but ask the men who have passed through the hands of the
Corps. They'll tell you with picturesque vehemence, and there will be
nothing Royal or Medical in their answer. For my own poor part, here's
hoping that the thirty-eight francs that disappeared from my pockets
while in their hands did some good somewhere. But I sadly wanted that
money while in the hospital at Boulogne to satisfy a craving I had for
oranges. Perhaps the beer or _eau de vie_ that it no doubt purchased did
more good than the oranges would have done me. Again, let us hope so!

From the Casualty Clearing Station I was taken to the hospital at St.
Omer, which was later to be laid flat by Hun air raids. And here, for
the first time, I realized the full weight of the calamity that had
overtaken me, and what being "windy" really meant. I was first visited
by the M.O., who removed my bandage and had my head skilfully dressed;
after him came a priest of the Church to which I belonged, who
administered to me the rites of the Church; then followed the assistant
matron, who endeavoured to cheer