An elderly doctor in his shirt sleeves had just finished binding up the stump of a man's leg, the lower part of which had been torn away by a piece of shell. He stood up, mopped his forehead, and, after bidding the carriers take the man away, he lay on the ground practically exhausted, dried blood still upon his hands and arms and scissors held loosely in his fingers; he closed his eyes to try and doze.
"That doctor is a marvel," said an officer to me. "He snatches a few moments sleep between his cases. Now watch!"
Another stretcher-party was coming in, and it was set down. An orderly went up to the doctor and lightly touched him on the shoulder.
"Another case, sir," he said.
The doctor opened his eyes and quickly rose to his feet.
The wounded man's head was bound round with an old handkerchief, matted with blood which had dried hard. Warm disinfectant was quickly brought and the doctor proceeded to gently loosen the rough bandage from the head, revealing a nasty head wound, a gash about three inches long and very swollen.
"What do you think of that?" he said, holding out something in his hand to me, "that's from this lad's head."
I looked and saw that it was a piece of his shrapnel helmet about two inches square, it had been driven into the flesh on his head, fortunately without breaking the skull. The wound was quickly dressed and the doctor again lay down to snatch a few more moments' respite.
"This will go on all night," said the padre, "and all day to-morrow. Have a cup of tea at my canteen, will you?"
Having had nothing to eat or drink all day I accepted the invitation. On the opposite side of the wood was a small shack built of old lumber, and every man before he left by ambulance received a cup of tea or coffee and biscuits.