ning, led him over an unnecessary
hill, which nearly exhausted his walking powers, but about nine o'clock
they at length reached the Cove and the clearing station. Mac's head
was again dressed, he swallowed with the deepest joy many cups of tea,
bid farewell to his escort, and lay down on some bales of hay to await
the arrival of a hospital-ship, of which there were none at present off
the landing.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF MAC'S CAMPAIGNING DAYS

About midday a hospital-ship anchored off the shore, and some one led
him along the pier to a barge, from which he was transferred to a
mine-sweeper, and at last was swung upwards by a crane on to the deck
of the ship. He was almost the first on board. Kind hands and
affectionate voices welcomed him, and tender hands led him along the
deck to a surgery. The fresh cooling sea air had revived him, and here
at last, with skilled hands and cool lotions easing his aching head, he
felt supremely happy.

The blood and grime removed from his face, and a neat white bandage
round his head, a sister took him in charge and guided him far down to
a ward low in the ship. She gave him a comfortable bunk, and swiftly
set about spring-cleaning him. She speedily unclothed him by running a
pair of scissors along the sleeves and legs of his blood-clotted
garments, giving him his precious bandages and identification disc
wrapped up in a handkerchief; then sponged him all over in deliciously
cool water, decked him in a shirt, and spread a sheet over him. Next
came a large bowl of hot soup, which Mac lost no time in putting within
his hungry frame, and finally a glass of port. The fine sister chatted
away the while with pleasant little laughs and entertaining
remembrances, as if she had not been working in those steamy holds for
days and nights with scarce a rest.

Many others were brought into the ward, and it was soon full of
seriously wounded men, Imperial, Australian and New Zealand. M.O.'s
and sisters worked incessantly at the heavy dressings.

The hours drifted slowly by, for though he had had no sleep for four
days and nights, and little for several nights before that, he did not
sleep, and the passage of time was marked only by the arrival of meals
and the pleasant relief of fresh dressings. He was always hungry from
long under-feeding, and relished everything which came his way. For
him there was no difference between night and day, and he often lost
count of time.