But I must not forget the hospital, full of poor women—victims of the Greeks. If there _were_ such sights at the French Front, I mercifully escaped seeing them; and here, for the first time, I realised what some of my sisters have had to endure since the spirit of war has come over us. Greek hatchets had been at work on Mme. Roufy Bey’s patients; and, whether in face or hip, back or leg, too many of these terrible wounds were festering, because it had been impossible to attend to them in time. I remember the mother who once answered her little girl’s natural questions by telling her: “You just grew on my heart.” “How lovely,” cried the child, “is that why mothers all carry the babies so near their hearts?” “Yes, it is where we keep them.” Here was a poor Turkish mother whose little one had been shot as it lay in her arms! Through this devastated area, and having seen the utter destitution of these people, I should have expected to find far greater bitterness towards the Greeks. But they are well treated in all the prison-camps, and never handled with brutality as they work on the roads. Yet they look rough and desperate, showing none of the resignation with which the Turk faces captivity, however ragged and tattered. These Greeks even seem afraid if a Christian woman speaks to them, although they own that their alarm does not come from either a guilty conscience or from terror of their enemies, but only reveals the broken spirit of men betrayed and alone. I feel, however, that to be always surrounded by the useless and horrible devastation you have yourself inflicted, must unnerve the most callous of human beings. * * * * * At about six o’clock on our last morning, an officer arrives to conduct us to the station. The train starts at 7-30, reaching Moudania at nine o’clock, where the boat _may_ leave at 9-30, or any time it likes. It is a short and uneventful train journey, only relieved by a brisk trade in tea at our two stopping-places. We find a high wind and rough seas at Moudania, and the boat has not yet _arrived_! There is plenty of time to drive to a unit of headquarters, where the officer’s mother (whom he had “smuggled” through from Constantinople) gives me coffee and cigarettes beside a welcome fire. We pass the historic house in which Peace was signed; one of the many examples in Anatolia of great achievements from small beginnings. Moudania is, on the whole, more depressing than any of the miserable towns I have been over; and the officer is, certainly, to be congratulated on having secured the company of his mother.