Some had dirty bandages round their heads. Some had their arms in slings. Others had hands so thickly swathed that they looked like the huge paws of polar-bears. Many were caked with mud and wore tattered uniforms. Some limped or hobbled along. Others could walk unaided. Some leaned heavily on our shoulders and some we had to carry on our backs. As each one entered the waiting-room--a little wooden shed opposite the swing-doors of the operating theatre--we took off his boots and tunic and made him sit down in front of the glowing stove. From time to time an orderly would shout across from the theatre: "Next man!" And we would take the "next man" over and help him to mount one of the tables. They were all very quiet at first and many sat with bowed heads. Some were dreading the operation, others, who were not badly wounded, looked bright and cheerful, as well they might, for they were going to have a holiday, perhaps in England, but anyhow at the Base, where they would enjoy a respite from danger, hardship, and misery--a respite that might last for weeks. And in the meantime the war might come to an end--one could never tell. Two infantrymen with packs and rifles passed by. They had been discharged from the C.C.S. and were going to rejoin their units. They stopped outside the waiting-room for a few minutes and looked enviously at the wounded sitting round the stove inside, and murmured with deep conviction: "Lucky devils." A patient came out of the theatre with bandaged arm. He held a large, semi-circular piece of iron in his hand. "Is that what they took out o' yer arm?" said one of the infantrymen. "Yes--decent bit, isn't it!" "Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere, to lay me up for months." His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing: "I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that hell up the line!" "'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?" "Sure!" The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily. A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible. "'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?" The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it. Suddenly a man shouted from the background: "Them bastard Fritzes--I'd poison the 'ole lot." And that started the argument. "I reckon one man's as good as another."