It was about ten o’clock on the 20th that I was hit. Late that night the colonel came to the dressing-station; he saw me lying in the corner and was told that I was done for. The next morning, the 21st, when they were clearing away the dead, I was found to be still breathing; so they put me on an ambulance for Heilly, the nearest field-hospital. The pain of being jolted down the Happy Valley, with a shell-hole at every three or four yards of the roads, woke me for awhile. I remember screaming. But once back on the better roads I became unconscious again. That morning the colonel wrote the usual formal letters of condolence to the next-of-kin of the six or seven officers who had been killed. This was his letter to my mother: 22/7/16 Dear Mrs. Graves, I very much regret to have to write and tell you your son has died of wounds. He was very gallant, and was doing so well and is a great loss. He was hit by a shell and very badly wounded, and died on the way down to the base I believe. He was not in bad pain, and our doctor managed to get across and attend him at once. We have had a very hard time, and our casualties have been large. Believe me you have all our sympathy in your loss, and we have lost a very gallant soldier. Please write to me if I can tell you or do anything. Yours sincerely, * * * Later he made out the official casualty list and reported me died of wounds. It was a long casualty list, because only eighty men were left in the battalion. Heilly was on the railway; close to the station was the hospital—marquee tents with the red cross painted prominently on the roofs to discourage air-bombing. It was fine July weather and the tents were insufferably hot. I was semi-conscious now, and realized my lung-wound by the shortness of breath. I was amused to watch the little bubbles of blood, like red soap-bubbles, that my breath made when it escaped through the hole of the wound. The doctor came over to me. I felt sorry for him; he looked as though he had not had any sleep for days. I asked him for a drink. He said: ‘Would you like some tea?’ I whispered: ‘Not with condensed milk in it.’ He said: ‘I’m afraid there’s no fresh milk.’ Tears came to my eyes; I expected better of a hospital behind the lines. He said: ‘Will you have some water?’ I said: ‘Not if it’s boiled.’ He said: ‘It is boiled. And I’m afraid I can’t give you anything with alcohol in it in your present condition.’ I said: ‘Give me some fruit then.’ He said: ‘I have seen no fruit for days.’ But a few minutes later he came back with two rather unripe greengages. I felt so grateful that I promised him a whole orchard when I recovered.