"In a short while the form on the stretcher began to mumble. This mumblin' soon turned into singin, an' that Tommy certainly could sing! 'E must 'ave been a comedian in civilian life, because we were soon a-roarin' with laughter. 'Arry Tate, the famous h'English comedian, in 'is fair weather d'ys, never 'ad a no more h'appreciative h'audience. H'awfter a bit the singin' stopped an' the Tommies began talkin' at each other. The main topic o' their conversation were Blighty--what 'opes! Each one was a-'opin' that 'is wound was serious enough for 'im to be sent to h'England. The stretcher-bearers were fairly pestered with questions as to what chawnce they 'ad o' reachin' a Lunnun public-'ouse. I believe they all h'envied the bloke under h'ether, with a left foot a-missin'; 'e was sure to click Blighty. "A Sergeant-M'jor o' the R.A.M.C. h'entered the ward like a blinkin' Admiral comin' aboard. All o' the medical men stood at attention, except one or two a-takin' care o' serious cases. The Sergeant-M'jor ordered: "'Get this ward in shape. The M.O. is comin' through in five minutes to h'inspect cases an' clear out.' "The R.A.M.C. men went from cot to cot, carefully smoothin' h'out blankets an' tuckin' in loose ends, an' pickin' h'up fag h'ends." (Cigarette butts.) "The Sergeant-M'jor pulled out. "In about ten minutes, the door again h'opened, an' with a smart 'shun' from the Sergeant-M'jor, who came in first, all what was able came to attention, an' the doctor h'entered, a clerk, and a R.A.M.C. Sergeant followin' in 'is wake. 'E stopped at each cot, carefully read the tag on the wounded man h'occupyin' it, passed a few remarks which the clerk jotted down on a pad of paper, an' as 'e left each wounded soldier, 'e 'ad a cheerin' remark for 'im. "When 'e came to me 'e awsked: "'Well, 'ow are you feelin' me lad, at the same time stoopin' over an' readin' from me tag: "'Ummm--three rifle bullets; well, me lucky fellow, h'it means h'England for you.' "H'I could 'ave blinkin' well a-kissed 'im for them words. "Then 'e passed to the Irishman on me starboard. Bendin' over 'im 'e awsked: "''Ow are you, me lad?' "The Irishman, thick-like, awnswered: "'I'm damned sick, an' I want to get out o' 'ere; I want to get out o' 'ere, out o' this draught. Ivery tin minutes they're openin' and a-shuttin' that door.' "The doctor, winkin' 'is lamp, turned to the R.A.M.C. Sergeant, an' said: "'Shrapnel, left foot, knee an' right breast. I see no reason why this man won't be ready for duty in a couple o' d'ys.' "The Irishman, bloody near jumpin' over the side o' 'is cot, yelled: "'Dooty, how in the 'ell can I do dooty when I cawn't blinkin' well walk?' "The doctor answered: "'That'll be all right, me lad. We'll fix you h'up with a cushy job at Brigade 'Eadquarters, a-poundin' a typewriter.' "The Irishman, with a moan of disgust, addressin' nobody in particular, sighed: