the conclusion they
were as much, if not more, part of the entertainment as the concert
itself.

It was still going strong when we left at 7 p.m. to go on duty, and the
faithful "Flossie" (our Ford) bore us swiftly back to hospital and
typhoids.

On the night of March 18th, 1915, we had our second Zeppelin raid, when
the Hospital had a narrow escape. (The first one occurred on 23rd
February, wiping out an entire family near the "Shop-window.") I was
still on night duty and, crossing over to Typhoids with some dressings,
noticed how velvety the sky looked, with not a star to be seen.

We always had two orderlies on at night, and at 12 o'clock one of them
was supposed to go over to the kitchen and have his supper, and when he
came back at 12.30 the other went. On this particular occasion they had
both gone together. Sister had also gone over at 12 to supper, so I was
left absolutely alone with the fifty patients.[4]

None of the men at that time were particularly bad, except No. 23, who
was delirious and showed a marked inclination to try and get out of bed.
I had just tucked him in safely for the twentieth time when at 12.30 I
heard the throb of an engine. Aeroplanes were always flying about all
day, so I did not think much of it. I half fancied it might be Sidney
Pickles, the airman, who had been to the Hospital several times and was
keen on stunt flying. This throbbing sounded much louder though than any
aeroplane, and hastily lowering what lights we had, with a final tuck to
No. 23, I ran to the door to ascertain if there was cause for alarm. The
noise was terrific and sounded like no engine I had ever heard in my
life. I gazed into the purple darkness and felt sure that I must see the
thing, it seemed actually over my head. The expanse of sky to be seen
from the yard was not very great, but suddenly in the space between the
surgical side and the Cathedral I could just discern an inky shadow,
whale-like in shape, with one small twinkling light like a wicked eye.
The machine was travelling pretty fast and fairly low down, and by its
bulk I knew it to be a Zeppelin. I tore back into the ward where most of
the men were awake, and found myself saying, "_Ce n'est rien, ce n'est
qu'un Zeppelin_" ("It's nothing--only a Zeppelin"), which on second
thoughts I came to the conclusion was not as reassuring as I meant it to
be. By this time the others were on their way back across the yard, and
I turned to give 23 another tuck