From the immediate fighting ground I made my way towards Trones Wood, upon the outskirts of which the Guards had their dressing station. Many of our men were there, lying about in all directions on stretchers, waiting to be taken away to the Casualty Clearing Station. I filmed many scenes here of our wonderful men suffering their physical torments like the heroes they were. One, in particular, sitting on a box making a cigarette, had a broad smile on his face, though the _whole of his elbow was shot completely away_. Another came in, helped along by two other men; he was a raving lunatic, his eyes ghastly and horrible to look upon, and he was foaming at the mouth, and gibbering wildly. "Shell-shock," said the doctor, close beside me; "bad case too, poor chap! Here, put him into this ambulance; three men had better go with him to look after him." "Do you get many cases like that?" I asked the doctor. "Yes," he said, "quite a few, but not all so bad as that." Wounded were still pouring in, both ours and German. The Bosche was shelling the ground only a short distance away and I managed to film several of our wounded men being dressed whilst shells were bursting in the near background. Another man was brought in on a stretcher. I looked closely at him when he was set on the ground. He had been knocked out by shell-fire. A piece of shrapnel was buried in his jaw, another large piece in his head, and, by the bloodstains on his tunic, about his body also. He was groaning pitiably. The doctor bending down had a look at him, then stood up. "It's no use," he said, "he's beyond human aid; he cannot last many minutes. Place him over there," he said to the stretcher-bearers. The men gently lifted the poor fellow up, and less than three minutes afterwards one came up to the doctor. "He's dead, sir." "Just tell the padre then, will you, and get his disc and name and have his belongings packed up and sent home." And so the day drifted on. The sun was blazing hot; every man there was working like a demon. Perspiring at every pore, each doctor was doing the work of four; the padre was here, there and everywhere, giving the wounded tea and coffee, and cheering them up by word and deed. Towards evening there came a lull in the attack. It had been a great success; all our objectives had been gained; the wounded drifted in in lessening numbers. An elderly doctor in his shirt sleeves had just finished binding up the stump of a man's leg, the lower part of which had been torn away by a piece of shell. He stood up, mopped his forehead, and, after bidding the carriers take the man away, he lay on the ground practically exhausted, dried blood still upon his hands and arms and scissors held loosely in his fingers; he closed his eyes to try and doze. "That doctor is a marvel," said an officer to me. "He snatches a few moments sleep between his cases. Now watch!"