The process of “coming to” was unpleasant and uninteresting. I do not think I distinguished myself by any originality, so will not attempt to describe it. That was a long interminable day, and my arm hurt a good deal. In the afternoon I was told that I should be pleased to hear that there was no bone broken. I was anything but pleased. I wanted the bone to be broken, as I wanted to go to “Blighty.” This worried me all day. I wondered if I should get to England or not. Then in the evening the sister (I found that the nurses should be called sisters) dressed the wound. That was distinctly unpleasant. It took hours and hours and hours before it began to get even twilight. I have never known so long a day. And then I could not sleep. They injected morphia at last, but I awoke after three or four hours feeling more tired than ever. THURSDAY I can hardly disentangle these days; night and day ran into one another. I can remember little about Thursday. I could not sleep however much I wanted to; and all the time my brain was working so hard, thinking. I worried about the company: they must be in the line now. Would Edwards remember this, and that? Had I left him the map, or was it among those maps in my valise which Lewis had gone to Morlancourt to fetch? And all the time there were rifle-grenades about; I daren’t let the buzzing come, because it was all rifle-grenades really; and always I kept seeing Lance-Corporal Allan lying there. Why could I not get rid of the picture of him? Yet I was afraid I might forget; and it was important that I should remember.... I remember the waiting to have my arm dressed. It was like waiting before the dentist takes up the drill again. I watched the man next to me out of the corner of my eye, and felt it intensely if he seemed to wince, or drew in his breath. And I remember in the morning Mr. Bevan dressed my wound. I looked the other way. For a week I thought the wound was above instead of just below the elbow. “This will hurt,” he said once. Some time in the day the man behind the screen died. I had heard him groaning all day; and there was the rhythmic sound of pumping--oxygen, I suppose.... I heard a lot of moving behind the screen, and at last it was taken away and I saw the corner for the first time and in it an empty bed with clean sheets. The man next to me, with the bandaged head, kept talking deliriously to the orderly about his being on a submarine. Once the orderly smiled at me as he answered the absurd questions. There was one good incident I remember. After the surgeon had dressed my arm, I said, “Is there any chance of this getting me to Blighty?” And I thought he did not hear; he was looking the other way. But suddenly I heard that calm deliberate voice: “Yes, that is a Blighty one. There is enough damage to those muscles to keep you in Blighty several months.” And this made all the rest bearable somehow. FRIDAY