We were all living in an empty deserted farmhouse, with a yard, a big orchard, wide barns and a wild overrun garden.

We were, I think, a little disappointed at the very languid interest that the history of our adventures roused, but the truth was that the wounded had begun to arrive in great numbers and there was no time for travellers' stories.
A dream, I know, yesterday's experiences seemed to me as I settled down to the business that had filled so much of my earlier period at the war.

Here, with the wounded, I was at home--the bare little room, the table with the bottles and bandages and scissors, the basins and dishes, the air ever thicker and thicker with that smell of dried blood, unwashed bodies, and iodine that is like no other smell in the world.

The room would be crowded, the sanitars supporting legs and arms and heads, nurses dashing to the table for bandages or iodine or scissors, three or four stretchers occupying the floor of the room with the soldiers who were too severely wounded to sit or stand, these soldiers often utterly quiet, dying perhaps, or watching with eyes that realised only dreams and shadows, the little window square, the strip of sky, the changing colours of the day; then the sitting soldiers, on ordinary of a marvellous and most simple patience, watching the bandaging of their arms and hands and legs, whispering sometimes "_Boje moi! Boje moi!_" dragging themselves up from their desperate struggle for endurance to answer the sanitars who asked their name, their regiments, the nature of their wounds.

Sometimes they would talk, telling how the thing had happened to them: "And there, your Honour, before I could move, she had come--such a noise--eh, eh, a terrible thing--I called out '_Zemliac_.