No more shells dropped into the town that day, but instead of going back to the billet, the men made their beds in the barn at nightfall. I returned to camp, thinking of the man who was dead and wondering whose turn would come next. IV THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION "For who feels the horrors of war more than those who are responsible for its conduct? On whom does the burden of blood and treasure weigh most heavily? How can it weigh more heavily on any man or set of men than those on this bench?" MR. BALFOUR (House of Commons, June 20th, 1918.) The rain came swishing down. Water gathered on the canvas above, and heavy drops fell splashing on to the floor with monotonous regularity. Somebody was muttering curses in his sleep. Others were snoring loudly. I lay awake for a long time, staring into the black darkness of the marquee. Suddenly--it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning--the familiar rumbling noise broke out in the distance. It seemed to spread along the whole horizon. The "stunt" had begun. A drowsy voice growled: "They're at it again--why can't they stop it once and for all." Another groaned deeply and muttered: "Awful--awful slaughter--blackguards, blackguards." The uproar increased. I was filled with a terrible dejection, but I went to sleep in the end. It was broad daylight when I woke up to the sound of innumerable motor-cars coming and going out on the road. The wounded were streaming in. The operating theatre was alive with figures clothed in white, blood-stained garments, bustling up and down, or standing in groups around the other tables. At the far end of the theatre someone was blubbering like a little child. "Here, come on--hold this man's leg up. What d'you think you're here for?" It was the surgeon at the next table who was speaking to me.