February 6, 1916.
We are so busy here that we scarcely know where to turn. It is just a procession of wounded coming and going all the time, for we have to send them off as quickly as possible in order to make room for the new arrivals. Thirty-eight went off last Tuesday and fifteen on Friday, but the beds are filled up again. The last ones we have been getting are so badly wounded that I wonder who can be moved on Tuesday. We have had wild wind and rain for the last week, but to-day is cold and clear and for the first time in weeks it is quiet—the cannonading has been incessant.
Two English aviators were brought in yesterday whose machine fell quite near here; fortunately they are not very badly hurt.
The box from the high school girls came to-day, and it was like having Christmas all over again,—such a nice lot of things there were. I shall have a fine time distributing them.
Here comes the ambulance. One poor man died in the receiving ward and the other two went to the operating room at once. They both have symptoms of gas gangrene, and I am afraid one will lose an arm and the other a leg.
In spite of the cold and wet we keep extraordinarily well.
Four new nurses have come, much to our relief, for the work was getting rather beyond us. Two of them are Canadians from Toronto. They know ever so many people I know. They sailed from St. John at Christmas time and saw so many St. John friends of mine—they said everyone was so good to them.
We do not get a minute during the night and some days have been up to lunch time.