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to the opposite sex, it may be pointed out that this innocent aspiration was shared in a greater or less degree, by twenty future members of the Sisters’ Mess, and at least fifty V.A.D.s.
    Seven letters. Old Mr. Moon and young Dr. Barnes, and Gervase Eden, surgeon, of Harley Street; Sister Marion Bates; Jane Woods and Esther Sanson and Frederica Linley, V.A.D.s. Higgins shuffled the envelopes together impatiently, and wrapped them round with a piece of grubby tape and thrust them into his pocket, plodding on, wheeling his bicycle up the hill. He could not know that, just a year later, one of the writers would die, self-confessed a murderer.

CHAPTER II

    1
    S ister Bates stood before the shabby plush curtains of the hospital concert hall, singing ‘Trees’. Her pretty, foolish face was blank with fright, and her hands hung at her sides like lumps of raw, pinkish meat. Every nore interrupted. He was a corporal in the Company, and nobody knew whether his dress suit was or was not intentionally funny. He held up his hand for silence and announced gloomily: “The Commanding Officer.”
    Every new Commanding Officer begins his reign by having something repainted. It starts him off with a reputation for efficiency. “… and, my dear, he hadn’t been two days in the place before the beds in St. Elmo’s had all been enamelled white!” Colonel Beaton had created quite a furore by having the word ‘Rubbish’ on the bins in the corridor, replaced by the word ‘Salvage’ in huge black and white letters, and at the moment his popularity was at its height. He reminded one of a bottle with the cork driven in too far. One longed to get hold of his head and pull it out sharply so as to give him a bit more neck. The bottle contained a certain amount of froth and very little else. He made a jolly little man-to-man speech.
    â€œâ€¦ sorry to break up this happy party, but as you may have noticed, there’s an air-raid on! These entertainments are allowed strictly on the understanding that if things get too hot, we must close down.” He explained earnestly: “If so many of the personnel were to be killed or injured at one time, it would make things very awkward,” and everybody thought this silly and unnecessary because it was perfectly obvious and they all knew it quite well. “Now, I’m afraid there’s been a bad show in Heronsford. The Air Raid Precaution centre has been hit, among other places, and there are a lot of casualties. The Cottage Hospital is filling up and we’re taking some of the people in here. I want everybody to go to their posts at once.” He added automatically: “Without panic,” though anything less like panic it would have been difficult to imagine; and continued with a little duck towards Sister Bates who still stood uncertainly at the side of the stage: “We’ve all enjoyed the ‘play’ very much indeed; now it’s time for work!” He scrambled down from the platform and hurried off out of the hall.
    â€œ I didn’t see no play,” confided the up-patients to each other, quite bewildered.
    The hospital was built in the shape of a gigantic wheel, its spokes forming the different departments and, above and below ground level, the wards; its hub a great circular hall, not unlike Piccadilly Circus Tube Station both in shape and purpose, and general appearance of seething activity. The lift ran straight up through the hall, the staircase curling round it in a slow spiral. The main operating theatre was on the ground floor, easily available to all the surgical wards; the emergency theatre in the basement was used only during raids.
    Marion Bates was theatre sister at Heron’s Park. She scurried down to see that the emergency night staff was prepared, and her mind was the strangest jumble of surgical instruments, ‘Song of Songs’ and Gervase Eden. She knew that her poor little effort