ness and
order. The curious public are afar off, held aloof by dock-gates.
(They are there in force to-day, partly to cheer the hospital trains
as they pass out, partly for reasons connected with the grey-painted
ship.) In the dock-shed, organisation and method reign supreme. The
work has been going on without intermission for several days and
nights; and still the great ships come. The Austurias is outside,
waiting for a place at the dock. The Lanfranc is half-way across the
English Channel; and there are rumours that the mighty Britannic[1]
has selected this, the busiest moment in the opening fortnight of the
Somme Battle, to arrive with a miscellaneous and irrelevant cargo of
sick and wounded from the Mediterranean. But there is no fuss. The
R.A.M.C. Staff Officers, unruffled and cheery, control everything,
apparently by a crook of the finger. The stretcher-bearers do their
work with silent aplomb.

[Footnote 1: These three hospital ships were all subsequently sunk by
German submarines.]

The occupants of the stretchers possess the almost universal feature
of a six days' beard--always excepting those who are of an age which
is not troubled by such manly accretions. They lie very still--not
with the stillness of exhaustion or dejection, but with the
comfortable resignation of men who have made good and have suffered in
the process; but who now, with their troubles well behind them, are
enduring present discomfort under the sustaining prospect of clean
beds, chicken diet, and ultimate tea-parties. Such as possess them are
wearing Woodbine stumps upon the lower lip.

They are quite ready to compare notes. Let us approach, and listen, to
a heavily bandaged gentleman who--so the label attached to him informs
us--is Private Blank, of the Manchesters, suffering from three "G.S."
machine-gun bullet wounds.

"Did the Fritzes run? Yes--they run all right! The last lot saved
us trouble by running towards us--with their 'ands up! But their
machine-guns--they gave us fair 'Amlet till we got across No Man's
Land. After that we used the baynit, and they didn't give us no more
vexatiousness. Where did we go in? Oh, near Albert. Our objective was
Mary's Court, or some such place." (It is evident that the Battle
of the Somme is going to add some fresh household words to our
war vocabulary. 'Wipers' is a veteran by this time: 'Plugstreet,'
'Booloo,' and 'Armintears' are old friends. We must now make room
for 'Monty Ban,' 'La Bust