Hartzell stretched me out on the ground and soon had a doctor bending over me. The doctor removed the eye bandage, took one look at what was beneath it and then replaced it. I remember this distinctly because at the time I made the mental note that the doctor apparently considered my head wound beyond anything he could repair. He next turned his attention to my arm and shoulder. He inserted his scissors into my left sleeve at the wrist and ripped it up to the shoulder. He followed this operation by cutting through my heavy khaki tunic from the shoulder to the collar. A few more snips of the nickel-plated blades and my shirt and undershirt were cut away. He located the three bullet holes, two in the arm and one across the top of the shoulder, and bound them up with bandages. "We're awful shy on ambulances," he said; "you will have to lie here a while." "I feel that I can walk all right if there is no reason why I shouldn't," I replied. "You ought to be in an ambulance," said the doctor, "but if you feel that you can make it, you might take a try at it." Then turning to Lieutenant Hartzell, he said, "Keep right with him, and if he begins to get groggy, make him lie down." So Hartzell and I resumed our rearward plodding or staggering. He walked at my right side and slightly in front of me, holding my right arm over his right shoulder and thereby giving me considerable support. We had not proceeded far before we heard the racing motor of an automobile coming from behind us. An occasional shell was dropping along the road we were now on. A stick struck my legs from behind in the darkness. And then an apologetic voice said: "Beg your pardon, sir, just feeling along the road for shell holes. Ambulance right behind me, sir. Would you mind stepping to one side? Come on, Bill," to the driver of the ambulance, "it looks all clear through here." The automobile with the racing motor turned out to be a light ambulance of a popular Detroit make. Its speeding engine was pure camouflage for its slow progress. It bubbled and steamed at the radiator cap as it pushed along at almost a snail's pace. "All full?" Hartzell shouted into the darkness of the driver's seat. "To the brim," responded the driver. "Are you wounded?" "No, but I have a wounded man with me," said Hartzell. "He can sit beside you on the seat if you have room." "Get right in," said the driver, and Hartzell boosted me into the front seat. We pushed along slowly, Hartzell walking beside the car and the driver's assistant proceeding ahead of us, searching the dark road with his cane for new shell craters. Occasionally, when our wheels would strike in one of these, groans would come from the ambulance proper. "Take it easy," would come a voice through pain-pressed lips; "for Christ's sake, do you think you are driving a truck?"