One night when my evening duty was nearing its close and I was just preparing to go to my hut the telephone bell rang, and I was told to go down to the hospital ship we had just loaded that afternoon for a man reported to be in a dying condition, and not likely to stand the journey across to England—I never could understand why those cases should have been evacuated at all if there was any possibility of them becoming suddenly worse; but I suppose a certain number of beds had to be cleared for new arrivals, and individuals could not be considered. It seemed very hard.
I drove down to the Quay in the inky blackness, it was a specially dark night, turned successfully, and reported I had come for the case.
An orderly, I am thankful to say, came with him in the car and sat behind holding his hand.
The boy called incessantly for his mother and seemed hardly to realize where he was. I sat forward, straining my eyes in the darkness along that narrow quay, on the look-out for the many holes I knew were only too surely there.
The journey seemed to take hours, and I answered a query of the orderly's as to the distance.
The boy heard my voice and mistook me for one of the Sisters, and then followed one of the most trying half-hours I have ever been through.
He seemed to regain consciousness to a certain extent and asked me from time to time,
"Sister, am I dying?"
"Will I see me old mother again, Sister?"
"Why have you taken me off the Blighty ship, Sister?"