The atmosphere--for there was no ventilation--stank of sweat, blood,
and chloroform.
By a powerful effort I countered my natural tendency to vomit, and
looked around me. The sides of the cellar were lined with figures on
stretchers. Some lay still and silent, others writhed and groaned. At
intervals, one of the attendants would call the doctor's attention to
one of the still forms. A hasty examination ensued, and the stretcher
and its contents were removed. A few minutes later the stretcher--
empty--returned. The surgeon explained to me that there was no room
for corpses in the cellar; business, he genially remarked, was too
brisk at the present crucial stage of the great battle.
The first feelings of revulsion having been mastered, I determined to
make the most of my opportunities, as I have always felt that the naval
officer is at a great disadvantage in war as compared with his
military brother, in that he but rarely has a chance of accustoming
himself to the unpleasant spectacle of torn flesh and bones.
This morning there was no lack of material, and many of the intestinal
wounds were peculiarly revolting, so that at lunch-time, when another
convenient lull in the torrent of shell fire enabled me to leave the
cellar, I felt thoroughly hardened; in fact I had assisted in a humble
degree at one or two operations.
I had lunch at the 11th Army Medical Headquarters Mess, and it was a
sumptuous meal to which I did full justice.
After lunch, whilst waiting to be motored to a field hospital, I
happened to see a battalion of Silesian troops about to go up to the
front line.
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