as awakened from a doze by a tremendous hubbub going on in
the ward. Raising myself on an elbow I saw Smith shaking one of the
W.A.A.C.s, who was hanging on to a bed for support, as a terrier might a
rat.

"You would, would you?" I heard her exclaim. "Sy it againe, yer
white-ficed son of a gun yer!" and she shook her till her teeth
chattered. I never found out what the "white-ficed" one had said, but
she showed no signs of repeating the offence. I felt as if I was in the
gallery at Drury Lane and wanted to shout, "Go on, 'it 'er," but just
restrained myself in time!

A girl orderly was despatched in haste for one of the head doctors, and
I awaited her arrival with interest, wondering just how she would deal
with the situation.

However, the "Colonel" apparently thought discretion the better part of
valour, and sent the Sergeant-Major--the only man on the staff--to cope
with the delinquent. I was fearfully disappointed. Smith checkmated him
splendidly by retiring into the bath where she sat soaking for two
hours. What was the poor man to do? It was getting late, and for all he
knew she might elect to stay there all night. He knew of no precedent
and ran in and out of the ward, flapping his arms in a helpless manner.
I felt Smith had decidedly won the day. Imagine an ordinary private
behaving thus!

There were sudden periodical evacuations of the ward, and one day I was
told my bed would be required for a more urgent case--a large convoy was
expected from France and so many beds had to be vacated. Three weeks
after my operation I left the hospital and arranged to stay with friends
in the country. As it was a long railway journey and I was hardly
accustomed to crutches again, I wanted to stay the night in town.
However, one comes up against some extraordinary types of people. For
example, the hotel where my aunt was staying refused to take me in, even
for one night, on the score that "_they_ didn't want any invalids!" I
could not help wondering a little bitterly where these same people would
have been but for the many who were now permanent invalids and for those
others, as Kipling reminds us, "whose death has set us free." I could
not help noticing that at home one either came up against extreme
sympathy and kindness or else utter callousness--there seemed to be no
half-measures.

In March I again hoped to go to Roehampton, but my luck was dead out. I
could still bear no pressure on the wretched nerve, and another