It was a strange mixture of the latest thing in surgical science and the crudeness of the caveman.
The walls were simply scooped out. They might have been dug with a gigantic spoon, so rough they were and so rounding. The floor had been packed or trodden hard, and in the middle of the small space was a rude operating table. Beside it, however, on enameled, collapsible iron stands, looking as though they might have been just carried out of some perfectly appointed hospital, were rows of delicate instruments.
There had been no firing for some time, and the place was empty. The surgeon and his assistant sat reading a month-old copy of a London paper. They scanned the columns eagerly, and laughed heartily at the jokes. For London gallantly jests, even in war time.
The lieutenant introduced Zaidos and Velo to the doctors, and explained their presence.
“Well, me lad,” said the older man, cordially taking note of Zaidos’ sunny smile and fearless eyes, “I’m thinkin’ that we need such as you. We can’t hope those fellows over there beyond will keep still much longer, and we will have the deuce of a time to hold our position, I believe. Of course we will do it, but it will mean a lot of work for us in here, worse luck!
“You want to familiarize yourself with every turn of the place. A lost moment may mean a lost life, perhaps yours, perhaps the man you are trying to help. You may have to leave the connecting trench you are running along and take to the top of the ground. If a shell falls ahead of you, you will find your path stopped up. Have you ever been under fire?”
“I don’t know just what you would call it,” said Zaidos laughingly, and proceeded to tell the doctor how they happened to be in their present position.
“Well, well, well!” said the doctor. “You ought to do! First drowned, and then shot at, and submarined. It does seem as though you ought to be able to keep your head, with only a few simple bullets and gas bombs flying around.”
He got to his feet stiffly, for living underground makes men rheumatic, and put down his paper.
“Just pay attention,” he said in a crisp, business-like way. “When you serve wounded men, remember two things. Work deliberately, yet with the greatest speed. Many a man has died from one little twist given in getting him on his stretcher. Forget the fight, forget everything for the time but that the torn body is in your hands. Do you know anything at all about lifting a man?”