We had a lot of work that autumn, and barges came down regularly as clockwork. Many of these cases were taken to the Duchess of Sutherland's Hospital. She had given up the Bourbourg Belgian one some time before and now had one for the British, where the famous Carroll-Dakin treatment was given. One night, taking some cases to the Casino hospital, there was a boy on board with his eyes bandaged. He had evidently endeared himself to the Sister on the train, for she came along with the stretcher bearers and saw him safely into my car. "Good-bye, Sister," I heard him say, in a cheery voice, "thank you a thousand times for your kindness--you wait till my old eyes are better and I'll come back and see you. I know you must look nice," he continued, with a laugh, "you've got such a kind voice." Tears were in her eyes as she came round to speak to me and whisper that it was a hopeless case; he had been so severely injured he would never see again. I raged inwardly against the powers that cared not a jot who suffered so long as their own selfish ends were achieved. That journey was one of the worst I've ever done. If the boy had not been so cheerful it would have been easier, but there he lay chatting breezily to me through the canvas, wanting to know all about our work and asking hundreds of questions. "You wait till I get home," he said, "I'll have the best eye chap there is, you bet your life. By Jove, it will be splendid to get these bandages off, and see again." Was the war worth even one boy's eyesight? No, I thought not. CHAPTER XIV CHRISTMAS, 1916 Taking some wounded Germans to No. 14 hospital one afternoon we were stopped on the way by a road patrol, a new invention to prevent joy-riding. Two Tommies rushed out from the hedges, like highwaymen of old, waving little red flags (one of the lighter efforts of the War Office). Perforce we had to draw up while one of them went into the _Estaminet_ (I noticed they always chose their quarters well) to bring out the officer. His job was to examine papers and passes, and sort the sheep from the goats, allowing the former to proceed and turning the latter away! The man in question was evidently new to the work and was exceedingly fussy and officious. He scanned my pink pass for some time and then asked, "Where are you going?" "Wimereux," I replied promptly. He looked at the pass again--"It's got "_W_imer_oo_," here, and not what _you_ said," he answered suspiciously. "Some people pronounce it 'Vimerer,' nevertheless," I could not refrain from replying, rather tartly. Again he turned to the pass, and as it started to snow in stinging gusts (and I was so obviously one of the "sheep"), I began to chafe at the delay. As if anyone would joy-ride in such weather without a wind screen, I thought disgustedly. (None of the cars had them.) "Whom have you got in behind?" was the next query. I leant forward as if imparting a secret of great importance, and said, in a stage whisper: "Germans!"