Well, so long, Hadley!' 'Cheero, Scott!' The ambulances start very cautiously, and crawl up the road. It is in execrable condition, for work in daylight here is impossible. It is all knocked to pieces with traffic, and frequently pitted with shell holes, and as a rule very narrow. There is no moon, which is just as well, and no lights can be carried. The driver feels his way through inky blackness by some sixth sense begotten of many such journeys. Every now and then a flare lights up the broken cobbles for a few seconds. His wheels are only a couple of feet from the mud on either side, and if he goes into that the car would be there for hours. A little to the right a battery of 18-pounders is firing slowly and regularly, and the shells scream over the road on their way to the enemy. A corner is turned and the road gets better. We draw up at a building with no light showing, and R.A.M.C. orderlies come up the steps from a cellar. This is the advanced dressing station; it collects from a brigade front and there are two doctors at work. A large window covered with sacking opens at the level of the ground into the cellar, and the wounded are lifted through it. Some will stay here all night, but the most seriously hurt are sent on to the casualty clearing station five or six miles back. Hot drinks are going and are welcome, for the injured men are trembling and sick with shock. Two new drivers come up from their dug-out, yawning, and take over; a message has just come in that the 'P' trenches have been 'hotted' by trench mortars and cars must go back again at once. The ambulances move off, leaving the doctors busy, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The second stage in the journey has been completed.