The driver, after clearly doing his best to make a smooth stop, gets down and helps in lifting out the stretchers. One of the wounded, as his stretcher is slid along the floor of the car and lowered to the ground, groans pitifully. He had groaned this way and sometimes even screamed at the rough places on the road. So the driver's conscience hurt him as he pulled some tacks out of his tires and waited for the sergeant's signal to start. It was his first day's work as an _ambulancier_. He could still see every rock and every rut in the last mile of the road he had just driven over and he wondered if he really had been as careful as possible. But he was saved from reproaching himself very long. An _infirmier_ tapped him on the shoulder and, telling him that a _blessé_ wished to speak to him, led him to one of the tents. It was the man about whom he had been unhappy, now more comfortable, although evidently still suffering. "You are very kind, sir," he said in English that might have been in other circumstances quite good, and disclosing a lieutenant's _galons_ as he gave his right hand to the driver. "You drive carefully. I know, for I have a car. I don't like to cry--but I have two broken legs--anything hurts me--but it is really decent of you fellows to come way over here--it really is _trop gentil_...." And the driver went back to his car marvelling for the first of many times at the sense of sympathy which had made that pain-stricken officer think of him at all. One wet night not long ago, the writer was stopped _en route_ by a single middle-aged soldier trudging his way along a steep road running from a cantonment behind the lines to the trenches. Embarrassed a little at first and pulling at his cap, this man said that he had heard in the trenches of the American Ambulance; that a friend had written back that he had been carried in one of them; that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity of shaking hands with one of the _volontaires américains_. Then, as I leaned over to say good-bye, he shook both my hands, offered me a cigarette, shook both my hands again, saying, "_une jolie voiture_," and, pointing towards where in the black distance came the rumble of guns, "Perhaps you will bring _me_ back to-morrow."