“Is there any special hospital in London you want to go to?” said a brisk R.A.M.C. official, when we reached Waterloo. “No,” I answered. He wrote on a label, and put that round my neck also. “Lady Carnarvon’s,” he said. I lay for some time on the platform of Waterloo station, gazing up at the vault in the roof. Porters and stretcher-bearers stood about, and gazed down at one in silence. Then I was moved into a motor ambulance, and a Red Cross lady took her seat in the back. My head was in the front, so that I could see nothing. Just before the car went off, a policeman put his head in. “Any milk or anything?” “Would you like any milk or beef tea?” the lady said. “Milk, please.” “He says he would like a little milk,” said the lady. And then we drove off. MONDAY It was somewhere about ten o’clock Monday morning. The sister had just finished dressing my arm; the doctor had poked it about; now it lay cool and quiet along by my side. I had not slept that night again, except with morphia. I still felt extraordinarily tired, but was very comfortable. I watched the tall sister in blue with the white headdress that reminded me of a nun’s cap. She was so strong and quiet, and seemed to know that my hand always wanted support at the wrist when she lifted my arm. I did not want to talk, just to lie. Suddenly I realised that my head was no longer buzzing. I knew that I should sleep to-night--at last! My body relaxed: the tension suddenly melted away. “Hurrah!” I thought, “I have not got to move, or think, or decide--and I can just lie for hours, for days.” At last I was out of the grip of war. CHAPTER XVII CONCLUSION