When the aid-post is
reached the M.O. takes charge, assisted by the sergeant or corporal of
the R.A.M.C., whom he has always with him, and the 'casualty' is laid
alongside others in the dug-out, or cellar beneath some ruined house,
that forms the aid-post and battalion dispensary. The first stage in the
journey is now over. Soon a couple of cars creep quietly up. One by one
the casualties are lifted in or climb in stiffly. The doctor who has
come up with them chats with the M.O., and the local gossip is exchanged
for the wider knowledge (or more grandiose rumours) of the field
ambulance. Our Jock, who has a bullet in his chest, is lifted in. Straps
are fastened securely and tarpaulins tied. 'All aboard, sir!' 'Right!
Well, so long, Hadley!' 'Cheero, Scott!' The ambulances start very
cautiously, and crawl up the road. It is in execrable condition, for
work in daylight here is impossible. It is all knocked to pieces with
traffic, and frequently pitted with shell holes, and as a rule very
narrow. There is no moon, which is just as well, and no lights can be
carried. The driver feels his way through inky blackness by some sixth
sense begotten of many such journeys.
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