You ask me what night duty in a surgical ward on active service is like. Well, imagine a huge square room, holding fifty beds, at present occupied by thirty-three patients, the rest having been sent to the base hospital for convalescents. We mount duty at 8 o’clock, and finish at 7 A.M. next morning. Our work during the night consists of attending to their personal wants, such as--one would like a drink of hot milk, another cannot sleep, he is in pain--a shrapnel wound in the thigh, and, unfortunately, he cannot turn over. So you have to look at the dressing, see that everything is O.K., start a bit of a yarn about anything, until he or you get fed up. Get him a drink, and, in all probability, the next time you have a look at him he is asleep: _A Hospital Orderly_. Sea Echoes We get now and again odd stories of what our tars are doing, and we were mighty pleased over that dust-up in the North Sea. We kept singing “Boys of the Bulldog Breed” till we thought our throats would crack, and it was taken up all along the line by our men. It’s not so risky as you would think on the battlefield. We were under heavy fire for two days before one of us was hit; I know other regiments had similar experiences. You’re all right so long as you keep under cover, but where the losses come in is when you have to retire with all those fiendish guns blazing away at you in the open. Then you can’t help being hit, and there’s always their cavalry to look out for, though it isn’t of much account against men with the bayonet. They have more than they know what to do with, and they’re always turning up where they’re least expected: _Corporal W. Johnson_. The Motor-Man There are two of us in charge of each motor, because the roads being very bad our hands and wrists get awfully tired holding the wheel, and we relieve each other. Ours is most important work, for it has been said an army marches on its stomach--that is to say, an army is not much use if it is hungry; therefore, if I have food wagons attached to my motor I must be on the spot when wanted--with ammunition it is just the same, of course. When our ammunition wagons get empty other full ones are brought up and ours are filled. We never go back to fetch anything; so it is the fighting line all the time. When the battle is over--and some of them have been very long, lasting over days and days--we get what rest and sleep we can, and have a sound meal. If we have been fortunate enough we have had sundry naps during lulls in the fighting, and have been able to get our food in the same manner: _A Salvationist Motor man, Royal Field Artillery_. An Interpreter