"Mem Sahib," he would say, "we are about to open fire on the British. You will move your ship about fifty yards. You will then be out of danger." He would bow and return to his regiment, giving us ample time to move before the great guns roared once more. But the Germans! To bomb a field hospital or shell an ambulance, or sink a Red Cross ship is a triumph for them! It was three o'clock one morning. We lay in the Mediterranean. An accident case needed instant care. I ran to prepare the "theater," as we call the operating room. The patient was treated and had been lifted to a stretcher when the Huns' torpedo struck us. Then came the crash, the sudden trembling of the ship and the sudden dreadful listing. We carried the man to the deck, scrambling up as best we could. The engine had not been struck, but the stern was shattered. Every man who was able to, reached the deck with life-belt on, and the nurses and doctors flew to the rescue of those below. We carried them all on deck, and the Commander faced us quietly. "The boats on the port side are smashed, and those on starboard cannot be lowered." There was not a sound for a full moment after he spoke, as the awful truth dawned upon us. Then his voice rang out: "There is only one chance--to jump for your lives." Jump for your lives! I looked at the men who were too ill to be moved, who lay unconscious, with flushed cheeks and closed eyes. Jump for our lives! What chance had they? Truly the Boches could take toll that night if they counted sick and wounded men and Red Cross nurses as fair prey. . . . The Commander shouted to us: "Jump feet first. Watch out--jump _feet first_." We had practised doing it in the tank on the way over. With life-belts on, it is the only way of preserving your balance. The men were dragging out tables and tearing up planks for rafts. They hurled them into the water, and little groups of them climbed the rail, stood poised an instant above the black depths below them--then leaped down. . . . The voices of hundreds of struggling men rang in on our ears and we were helpless to aid them. The Commander called the nurses to him. "You go next," he told them. "The Matron and I will jump last." They were the bravest, coolest lot of girls I have ever seen. They climbed the rail, hand in hand. They hesitated a second--with a shudder at what lay before them, then they leaped forward. . . . I could not look. Only the Commander and I remained. He drew me to the rail. "I can't do it," I cried, drawing back. But he was very firm. "Come," he said quietly, "it will soon be too late."