"Go and get a new cylinder—this one's empty—your damned carelessness again—look sharp about it."
It was the Corporal's business to see that the cylinder in the theatre was always full. He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the cupboard in which the reserve cylinders were kept, but he could not find it. He walked out and searched in the shed opposite the theatre. He came back without it.
"Hurry up for God's sake—the man's dying—it'll be too late in a minute!"
He looked round the theatre with affected deliberation, for the angry shouting of the anæsthetist had wounded his pride. At last he found the key on a shelf. He unlocked the cupboard, fetched out a new cylinder, and placed it beside the table. The tube was pushed into the open mouth, the tap was turned, there was a rush of gas. But it was too late. The man was dead.
"D'you see what you've done?" shouted the infuriated anæsthetist. "Here's a man dead through your neglect. Don't you bloody well let it occur again, else I'll put you under close arrest and have you up for a court martial."
The Corporal walked sulking out of the theatre and muttered something about a "bloody fuss."
One of the orderlies went to the door and shouted:
"Another slab for the mortuary!"—Those who died on the operating tables were facetiously called "slabs."
Two bearers came in with a stretcher. The corpse was pushed on to it and carried away to the mortuary. There it would be sewn up in an army blanket, ready for burial. And then a telegram would be sent to a wife or mother, informing her that her husband or son had "died of wounds received in action."
There was amputation after amputation. The surgeons were tired of cutting off legs and arms—it was "so monotonous and uninteresting," as one of the sisters put it.