ether as possible. It seemed
terrible to believe that every one[1] of those men was seriously wounded.
The stretchers were so close together it was impossible to try and move
among them, so I stayed on the bottom rung of the ladder and threw the
cigarettes to the different men who were well enough to smoke them. The
discomfort they endured must have been terrible, for from a letter I
subsequently received I learnt they were three days on the journey. In
those days when the Germans were marching on Calais, it was up to the
medical authorities to pass the wounded through as quickly as possible.

Often the men could only speak Flemish, but I did not find much
difficulty in understanding it. If you speak German with a broad
Cumberland accent I assure you you can make yourself understood quite
easily! It was worth while trying anyway, and it did one's heart good to
see how their faces lighted up.

There were some famous characters in the Hospital, one of them being
Jefke, the orderly in Ward I, who at times could be tender as a woman,
at others a veritable clown keeping the men in fits of laughter, then as
suddenly lapsing into a profound melancholy and reading a horrible
little greasy prayer book assuring us most solemnly that his one idea in
life was to enter the Church. Though he stole jam right and left his
heart was in the right place, for the object of his depredations was
always some extra tasty dish for a specially bad _blesse_. He had the
longest of eyelashes, and his expression when caught would be so comical
it was impossible to be angry with him.

Another famous "impayable" was the coffin-cart man who came on occasions
to drive the men to their last resting place. The Coffin cart was a
melancholy looking vehicle resembling in appearance a dilapidated old
crow, as much as anything, or a large bird of prey with its torn black
canvas sides that flapped mournfully like huge wings in the wind as
Pierre drove it along the streets. I could never repress a shiver when I
saw it flapping along. The driver was far from being a sorry individual
with his crisp black moustaches _bien frises_ and his merry eye. He
explained to me in a burst of confidence that his _metier_ in peace
times was that of a trick cyclist on the Halls. What a contrast from
his present job. He promised to borrow a bicycle on the morrow and give
an exhibition for our benefit in the yard. He did so, and was certainly
no mean performer. The only day I ev