Except when their wounds are being dressed, they lie absolutely quiet, sleeping, or staring into vacancy.

They hardly ever speak a word, though the beds are only a foot apart.

On my left is the fragment of the sergeant gunner whom I took for a drive.

His misfortunes and his cheerful indifference to them make him a man of social importance.

He shows with regret how the shell cut in half a marvellous little Burmese lady, whose robes once swept down his arm in glorious blues and reds, but are now lapped over the bone as "flaps." Another patient was a shaggy, one-eyed old man, between whose feet a Bulwan shell exploded one afternoon as he was walking down the main street.