I began crawling along the water-course. I had only gone three yards or so, and turned a bend, when I came suddenly upon two wounded men. Both quite young--one merely a boy. He had a bad shrapnel wound through his boot, crushing the toes of his right foot. The other lay groaning upon his back--with a very bad shrapnel wound in his left arm. The arm was broken. The boy sat up and grinned when he saw me. “What's up?” asked his pal. “Red Cross man,” says the boy; and then: “Any water?” “Not a drop, mate,” said I. “Been wounded long?” “Since yesterday evening,” says the boy. “Been here all that time?” I asked. (It was now mid-afternoon.) “Yes: couldn't get away”--and he pointed to his foot. “'E carn't move--it's 'is arm. We crawled 'ere.” “I'll be back soon with stretchers and bandages,” I said, and went quickly back along the water-course and then past the Engineers. “Found 'em?” they asked. “Yes: getting stretchers up now,” said I. “Awful stink here! Found any dead?” I asked. “Yes, there's one or two round here. We buried one over there yesterday: 'e fell ter bits when we moved 'im.” I went on. Soon I was back in the ditch beside the wounded men. I had successfully dodged the sniper by following along the bottom of the bed of the stream. With me I brought two stretcher-squads, and they had a haversack containing, as I thought, splints and bandages. But when I opened it, it had only some field dressings in it and some iodine ampoules. I soon found that the man's arm was not only septic, but broken and splintered. “Got a pair of scissors?” I asked. One man had a pair of nail-scissors, and with this very awkward instrument I proceeded to operate. It was a terrible gash. His sleeve was soaked in blood. I cut it away, and his shirt also. I broke an iodine phial and poured the yellow chemical into his great gaping wound. Actually his flesh stunk: it was going bad. “Is it broke?” he asked. “Be all right in a few minutes; nothing much.” I lied to him. “Not broke then?” “Bit bent; be all right.” With the nail-scissors I cut great chunks of his arm out, and all this flesh was gangrenous, and mortification was rapidly spreading. My fingers were soaked in blood and iodine. I cut away a piece of muscle which stunk like bad meat. “Can you feel that?” I asked. “Feel what?” he murmured. “I thought that might hurt. I was cutting your sleeve away, that's all.” I cut out all the bad flesh, almost to the broken bones. I filled up the jagged hole with another iodine ampoule. I plugged the opening with double-cyanide gauze, and put on an antiseptic pad. “Splints?” I asked. “Haven't any.” So I used the helve of an entrenching-tool and the stalks of the willow undergrowth. I set his arm straight and bandaged it tightly and fixed it absolutely immovably. Then we got him on a stretcher, and they carried him three and a half miles to our ambulance tents. But I'm afraid that arm had to come off. I never heard of him again.