Word reached military headquarters of Elizabeth D’Azy’s skill in nursing, of her unflinching coolness in the face of all danger. It was decided that the war department had need of her at Dunkirk. The town was under heavy bombardment, receiving between three hundred and four hundred bombs daily. At the barracks hospital, arranged at the railway station, there were cots for two hundred wounded. Sometimes a thousand men were laid out on the floors. One night there were three thousand. And there was only the Viscountess, who was the commandant, one trained nurse, and some voluntary untrained assistants. For a protection against the Zeppelins it was necessary that there should be only the dimmest candle light even for the performing of operations. As rapidly as possible patients were evacuated to base hospitals. The commandant one night was tenderly supervising the lifting into an American ambulance of an officer whose wounds she had just bandaged. She leaned over the wheel to admonish “Drive slowly or he cannot live.” And as she touched the driver’s arm there was an exclamation of mutual surprise. The driver was A. Piatt Andrews, under secretary of the treasury in President Taft’s administration. And the last time he had seen the Viscountess D’Azy he had taken her in to dinner at the White House in Washington when her husband was an attaché there of the French Embassy. How long ago was all the gaiety of diplomatic social life at Washington! A siren sounded shrilly now the cry of danger and death in an approaching taube raid. And the greeting ended hastily, the hospital commandant and the ambulance driver hurrying in the darkness to their respective posts of duty. The Viscountess has been in charge of a number of hospitals, having been transferred from place to place at the front. When I saw her, she was temporarily in command for a few weeks at the hospital which had been opened at Claridge’s Hotel in Les Champs Elysées in Paris. She didn’t care about her medals or her own magnificent record. It wasn’t even the achievements of her husband, the Viscount D’Azy, in command of the naval battleship _Jauré-guiberry_, of which she spoke most often. The Viscountess D’Azy’s one theme is her boy. Before the war he was her little son. Now he is a tall and handsome officer in uniform, at the age of nineteen, Sub-lieutenant Charles Benoit D’Azy.