How tired they looked as they sat wearily upon the edge of their beds, waiting for the orderlies to come and assist them to undress! But even here they were able to smile and crack their little jokes from bed to bed. As soon as they were undressed, they were given a refreshing bath, in which they revelled after their weeks of dirty work and mud. After the bath came clean, warm pyjamas, a cup of hot cocoa or soup, a slice of bread and butter, and last, but to the soldier never least, a cigarette. To him the cigarette is the panacea for all ills. I have seen men die with a cigarette between their lips—the last favour they had requested on earth. If the soldier is in pain, he smokes for comfort; if he is restless he smokes for solace; when he receives good news, he smokes for joy; if the news is bad, he smokes for consolation; if he is well—he smokes; when he is ill—he smokes. But good news or bad, sick or well, he _always_ smokes. As I entered the ward a Highlander, not yet undressed, was sitting upon the side of his bed puffing contentedly at his cigarette. His tunic was still spattered with dried blood. "Are you badly wounded?" I asked him. "Not verra badly, sir," he returned, as he stood at attention. "But you have a lot of blood on your tunic," I said, pointing to his right side and hip. "It’s not a’ mine, sir," he replied as he grinned from ear to ear—"it’s a souvenir from a _Bosche_, but he did make a sma’ hole in ma thigh wi’ his bayonet." "And what happened to him?" He laughed outright this time. "He’s got ma bayonet an’ ma rifle too," he cried. "Oh, man, but it was a gran’ ficht!" "Is he dead?" I asked. "Dead?" he exclaimed. "I hae his top-hat wi’ me noo;" and he held up a Prussian helmet to our admiring gaze. I congratulated him and passed on; but I had little time just then for chatting. All the wounds had to be unbandaged, washed and freshly dressed, and although we worked rapidly, the nurses undoing the bandages and attending to the minor cases, while I did the more serious ones myself, it was broad daylight before we had finished. The morning sun, stealing gently over the trees, found patients and doctors alike ready for a few hours’ sleep. A similar scene had been enacted in every other ward. It was nearly six a.m. as the other officers and myself, with the exception of the unfortunate orderly officer, started down the road toward the villa. Our billet was about a quarter-mile away, but our "mess" was in the hospital building. I crawled into bed at last, very, very weary, and in a few moments was lost to the world. It was Tim who finally roused me from this heavy sleep. He was standing at the foot of my bed with his head on one side in his customary bird-like attitude. His stiff black forelock hung straight over his brow. I was just conscious enough to hear him saying: "Wake up, maje!"