 Section 4 of With the Royal Army Medical Corps in Egypt by Sergeant Major R.A.M.C. This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3 The Long, Long Way to Archie Baba During those interminable weeks and months of toil, when every man of the R.A.M.C. in Egypt kept loyally and remittingly to his task of suckering the sick and wounded that poured into the country from Gallipoli, the thought must constantly have arisen in many minds. What sort of place could this be, and what the conditions, where such very work of Hades had been brewing? Those of our Medical Corps men who lived through the dread days of the landing on the Gallipoli Peninsula cannot easily be got to talk of their experiences. There is a point beyond which fullness of heart does not make the mouth speak. Rather, it tends to check utterance, as though words were powerless to convey any true expression of things done and seen. There is one fact which stands out very clearly against the somber yet lurid background of this Gallipoli story. It is the necessity of having in the ranks of the Army Medical Corps a large number of men in the prime of their sturdy youth, equally with those of other services. There are too many uninformed, perhaps uninformable, persons at home who loudly express the opinion that non-combatant units should be composed of men physically or by reason of age, unfit for the supposedly more exacting duties of carrying arms. There is little profit in attempting to dispel illusions born of ignorance, even if that were either necessary or possible, but the plain, practical testimony of experience can always be depended upon to speak for itself, and from first to last the story of the work of the Royal Army Medical Corps on Gallipoli is one long tale of triumph over difficulties insuprable for manhood other than at its full tide of youth and strength. For how else is it possible to account for the facts of the collection of wounded from those early battlefields of Gallipoli, their medical treatment in the dressing stations and their conveyance to the hospital ships with such expedition that within the first ten days thousands were landed in Egypt 200 miles away overseas. The physical strain, the mere expenditure of bodily energy involved in this task, apart from the mental and nervous wear and tear, is scarcely to be exaggerated. Indeed, youth and strength alone must have stood between success and failure in the work, success which meant the saving of innumerable lives and the avoidance of untold suffering, and failure which could only have meant for thousands the worst of torture ending in the worst of deaths. Here is what Sir Ian Hamilton in his dispatch of August the 25th, 1915 says of the work of our field ambulances on the peninsula. The Royal Army Medical Corps have had to face unusual and very trying conditions. There are no roads, and the wounded who are unable to walk must be carried from the firing line to the shore. They and their attendants may be shelled on their way to the beaches, at the beaches, on the jetties, and again, though I believe by inadvertence, on their way out in lighters to the hospital ships. Efficiency, method, and quiet heroism have characterised the evacuation of the many thousands of our wounded. And here, from the same dispatch, is a picture of the country and the circumstances in which the work was done. The country is broken, mountainous, arid, and void of supplies. The water found in the areas occupied by our forces is quite inadequate for their needs. The only practicable beaches are small, cramped breaks in impracticable lines of cliffs, with the wind in certain quarters, no sort of landing is possible. The wastage by bombardment and wreckage of lighters and small craft has led to crisis after crisis in our carrying capacity, whilst over every single beach plays fitfully throughout each day a devastating shell fire at medium ranges. On such a situation appeared quite suddenly the enemy submarines. Efficiency, method, and quiet heroism, Sir Ian Hamilton, ever happy of phrase in his official dispatchers, could scarce have hit upon words more singularly apt than these in his designation of the work of our field ambulances, officers, and men alike on the Gallipoli peninsula. The efficiency and method were there as a matter of course, the common qualities of all trained units, but the peculiar variety of heroism, which may be called quiet, is not a military trait at all. In soldiers you find stolidity, a sort of dogged, dumb indifference in the face of danger. Of the recorded deeds of heroism in this war have been done with the same clenched teeth and tongue-tied derisive grin that doctors so often see in men suffering from some hideous dismemberment, who are brought to the aid-post to be dressed. Magnificent as it is, it belongs rather to the physical than the moral side, but quiet heroism is wholly another thing. The commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force was right when he applied the words to the work of the R.A.M.C., on those back-aking, nerve-wracking days and nights that followed the memorable landing near Cape Heller's. But he was not wholly right, for he used the words in special commendation as of an extraordinary effort, whereas the sober fact, as all joining the R.A.M.C. should be made to know, is that an ambulance-man is useless in warfare unless courage of the quiet kind forms an ordinary indispensable part, a signe qui non of his professional kit and as such calls for no commendation. Quiet heroism has none of the physical, it is even beyond the intellectual, perhaps it is wholly a spiritual thing. It has no impulses, nor great vaulting occasions, nor has it anything of the thunder and blunder obsession about it, such as made balaclava. It has no times or seasons. It is as ready at three o'clock in the morning as at high noon. It does not need war-woops, nor screels of backpipes to awaken it to instant service. You cannot see it or define it, or associate its possession with outward evidences of noble brow, or flashing eye, or ball-dog jaw. The men that have it most are often of the gentle-mannered, diffident type, the last men in the world, you would say, to prove of the stuff of heroes. But whatever it is, the sober fact, as proved in this and all other theatres of war, is that our medical servicemen possess it in abundance, from the attached MO, or medical officer, in his dugout close to the firing line, with a bullet in his own back, who quietly finishes dressing the wound of a man, to the RAMC cook at the dressing station below, who as quietly takes his turn at stirring the Dixie, while his mate, who a moment before was wielding the ladle, is now on his way to the doctor, with shrapnel in his throat. There is indeed no single department of the work of the RAMC in the field wherein a ceaseless levy on this particular quality is not made. In the story of the Gallipoli campaign, so far as it deals with the work of our corps, serves but to bring this truth more vividly into relief, whether during those first critical days, or later when the opposing forces had settled down into the grim, unlovely methods of trench warfare. In that far-off spit of land, cut off from all the world, any and every sort of courage, indeed, was badly needed. It is of course universally known that there was no such thing as a safety zone on the peninsula. Every yard of ground, from firing line to sea, was open to shell and rifle fire, and to bombs from aeroplanes, not to mention the hail of returning shrapnel bullets sent up by our own guns against enemy aircraft. In the summer, the heat and the plague of flies were all but unbearable. The autumn brought storms and floods, when the gullies and ravines, the deep zigzag crevices in the yellow sandstone heights so characteristic of Gallipoli, wherein our troops lived like rats in a drain, became impossible mountain torrents. Winter came with more gales and deluges, and a cold that seemed to have in it a bitter quality of unearthly searching deadliness. Through it all, the work of aid-post, advanced dressing-station, and casualty-clearing-station, the unceasing toil of the stretcher-squads, the lading of hospital-ships, fared unconcernedly on. Much has been written, more than enough, perhaps, about the deeds done and perils lived through during the first exulting months of the Dardanelles' campaign. Too little, assuredly, is known, or ever will be known, about the life that followed. A life, or rather a bare existence, wherein endurance of every conceivable discomfort and hardship and danger became habit ingrained, wherein long use brought to men a second nature of skulking in rabbit burrows, and their old birthright of freedom to walk the earth under blue sky and sunshine was whittled down, rabbit-like, to occasional furtive scurrelings from whole to whole. To live that sort of life for long, and keep a sound heart and mind within him, was test of worth for any man. Luckily, for the particular strain of humanity, which is attracted to the army medical service, the conditions could be viewed from a different point, from that necessarily occupied by the fighting man. The latter is out to kill, all honour to him for that, in the present war at least, but neither his training nor his temperament had in the slightest degree prepared him for what he perforce encountered on the Gallipoli Peninsula. The killing spirit chafed itself sore and raw in the sepulchral environment of dugout and trench. On the other hand, the healing spirit, the business of staunching wounds and heartening helplessness and easing pain, which had brought the RMC man to the same ominous pass, did not leave him in the light predicament of mind. It is not here contended that the medical service man goes to war with cleaner hands or noble motives than he who seeks and is trained to kill his country's enemies for the common good. But the fact is self-evident that the one kind of duty tends to nourish faculties which are spiritual, while the other tends to destroy them, or at least to keep them in abeyance and subject to all the perils that accompany disuse. The word self-sacrifice has been on everyone's lips since the beginning of this war, but nearly always it has been applied to those who, while exerting every art and device to kill the enemy, have themselves been killed by him. This is self-sacrifice in the truest sense, if you will, although soldiers in general agree that, in this regard, the term has been worn rather thin. Not enough, however, is heard of it in connection with those whose duty carries them equally into the thick of every fight, but who have none of the warrior's stimulus, the sporting sense of giving blow for blow, the upholding, satisfying spirit which poor humanity will ever find in the ancient doctrine of tit for tat. Here is the story, simply, even broadly told, of one specimen day in the routine of an attached RMC medical officer to the regiment on Gallipoli, which serves to illustrate, as well as another, the quiet heroism of which Sir Ian Hamilton wrote. It is given nearly in the original words of its recorder. There is nothing remarkable, nor even exceptional, about it. Taking it thus almost at random, the story of all the long weary months of the campaign may be realised as much or as little as we may realise a whole edifice by looking at a single stone. When the stretcher-bearers pick up a wounded man, they carry him to the medical officer in his dugout. This is close behind the firing line and is simply a hole in the wall of one of the main communication trenches, with ledgers cut for the doctor and his assistants and any patients who are there to sit or lie on. Round about are arranged the medical and surgical panniers that are thrown open ready for use now that an action is on. It is imperative that the doctor be at some spot which all the officers and men belonging to his unit know, and to which the slightly wounded can walk and the severely wounded can be carried. This arrangement is necessary, as it is impossible for the medical officer to do good work in the firing trenches themselves, which are scattered and cramped. The work done at the regimental aid post, as it is called, is always carried out under grave risks, and the losses amongst medical men who have died at their duty have occurred mostly at these places. During an action the shells and bullets may be falling like hail, and yet there is never a lull in the work of dressing and bandaging. The wounded men sit or lie round, waiting their turn. We now and then the bearers squeeze along the narrow trench leading to the doctor's place, carrying a man whose grave condition demands immediate attention. The doctor turns aside from the shattered legs and arms, and bends over the prostrate figure. His assistants deftly cutting away the clothes here and there till the wound is properly exposed. Finally he does what is needful or possible. The wound is swab-clean. Perhaps a tornache is applied to stem the red gush that is carrying life away with it. The doctor turns again to the patients whose needs have had to give way before the greater danger, and one by one their wounds are bathed and dressed, and they are carried off by the bearers waiting near. If you are to picture the scene at the medical aid post during an action, as indeed at all the more advanced places of medical treatment, you must realize the awful circumstances of the time. The air is torn with the din and crash of the heavy guns that belch forth destruction on all sides, and with the constant crackle of the rifles and machine guns. The bullets fly past with a hiss and a hum. As the shells cross a hollow in the ground, the sound of their flight gathers into a roar that is prolonged long after they have passed overhead. It is as if a thunderstorm had burst forth at your very ears, and that it seems as if it would never cease. Every now and then the doctor and those around him stand for a moment listening intently, and then duck suddenly, as a shell tears past with a scream and falls a few yards off, shattering everything in its course. A few seconds later, perhaps without a trace of warning, there is a terrific crash overhead as if the storm had concentrated all its fury for one supreme moment. The shrapnel spatters the parapet and the trench with its deadly charge, and the doctor turns again to his work. He feels a sharp twinge in his arm where he thinks a lump of earth has struck him, but that is nothing, and his work is pressing paramount. The man on the ledge before him, whose hand he has just finished dressing, sits for a moment gazing at the opposite wall, and then rolls over heavily with a bullet through his brain. He is carried out gently, and it is then seen that the same shrapnel charge has found two of the other patients, who by this time have collected in a crowd round the doctor's dugout, waiting their turn. They must all be seen to, and sent down the line as quickly as possible. Faster than ever, the work of bathing, dressing, and bandaging goes on. The doctor and his orderlies swab and cut and snip and tie until the crush is well nigh over. His arm has been aching to the socket, but there has been no time to see to it, with so many that must be dressed and passed on, waiting by. His orderly has seen the blood oozing through his shirt sleeve and running down his arm, but there is blood everywhere, and who mines blood on such a day. With the lull that leaves a gap for thought, the doctor wonders if a lump of earth could really cause such pain, and there is a stream of blood trickling down, after all. With a feeling akin to annoyance, he finds a bullet hole right through his arm, and knows now that he himself must be dressed and bandaged, and join the throng that is passing on down the line. But all this might be anywhere, albeit it bears the stamp of actuality in every line. Here, however, is something manifestly of Gallipoli, and of nowhere else. It is little more than a succession of brief and broken glimpses, notes for the most part hurriedly jotted down in the rare intervals of leisure, coming in the midst of busy days and nights. The writer was surgeon's orderly, in an advanced dressing-station near the firing line at the top of one of the wildest ravines on the peninsula, where he remained quietly until the last hours of our occupation. Life seems a weird affair up here, especially towards the small hours of morning. We have just got the last wounded man of the last batch of stretcher-cases bedded down with the rest ready for evacuation on the morrow. The medical officer has gone back to his dugout, pretty well fact to death, and no wonder. Ah, and you, are already snoring under their blankets in the corner. By rights I ought to be doing the same. Instead of that, I am sitting on the operating bench, swinging my legs, my pipe, faithful friend through many a trying hour, well alight, and my thoughts browsing over the events of the day that is gone. Yes, this is a weird existence. It is quite enough up here now, quiet, that is to say, except for the snores and groans of some forty wounded men huddled side by side and head to foot, completely covering the floor of the long dressing station, and almost invisible under the dim light of the one smoky oil lamp. The big guns on the heights have been silent for a long while now, and the rifle fire from our trenches has dwindled down to no more than an occasional shot when some vigilant sniper thinks he has got a chance. It has been an awful day, one of the worst I have been through, and I have seen a good many. I get down from the bench and, lifting the moth-eaten blanket that goes duty for a door, stand out in the porch for a little while to think it over. It does not do to go out too far. Though amidst the general hum of the night I can distinguish only the shots fired from the adjacent trenches, the air is full of the sound of passing bullets. They make a shrill high tune in the night, as though a cloud of gnats were dancing in the moonshine. Now and again one passes ominously near. A couple indeed in quick succession bury themselves in the bank close at hand. They are spent bullets, mostly, but still capable of harm. I keep well under the iron and earth of the jutting roof-eaves, and turn over the events of the day that has gone. It was Sunday. Word had come down to us, be times, of what was brewing, and we had prepared for a busy day. The plan was simple. We knew the sappers had long been at work on a great mine. At two o'clock precisely our artillery was to open the ball, and our riflemen were to keep the Turks busy in their trenches, in expectation of attack. And the mine was to go up, and our men were to go over. Well before the allotted time we had the dressing-station prepared to the mine-utus detail. Doctors and orderlies in their places, coats off, and shirt-sleeves tucked up, panniers open, dressings and bandages, solutions, splints, and instruments ready to hand. Every man of our bearer section had gone up to the front hours ago. It wanted still some minutes to the time appointed. As we stood about with nothing to do, a low, desultory talk went from man to man, but though each put in his word nobody listened. We had ears only for what we expected outside. The boom of the first great gun which was to be the signal for the big do. Suddenly over-born by the tenseness of the situation, I came out then, as I have come out now, came out to look upon one of the serenest pictures that ever I could dwell upon. It was a typical Sunday afternoon, drowsy, golden, and still. Above stretched the winter sky of an unsullied, tender blue. The deep ravines zigzagged away below me, its steep sides rising on either hand of a rich, tawny ochre, straight and spotted with luxuriant green growth. Here above, against the blue sky, a tuft of yellow blossom nodded in the breeze that I could not feel down in the shelter of the gully. In the thicket of the opposing scarf, one solitary bird, I knew not of what kind, was singing loud and clear. The flower was the only thing that moved. The bird's song, the only sound, in all the dreamy, tranquil scene. I remember an odd catch in my throat as I looked out from the dressing station door, suddenly aghast at the contrast between what was and what was soon to be. God help us, I thought, for a lot of wicked, wanton lunatics. But I had only a moment for this womanishness. The long expected signal-gun crashed out from the battery on the heights, and the shell flew screaming away towards the Turkish lines. There is one word to which, in his letter's home, the soldier invariably resorts when he is trying to convey a notion of what a real engagement is like. But to call war hell, in letters to home-keeping English folk, is of little avail, seeing that it is but comparing one unknown quantity with another. War, at least in its modern form, is really indescribable, incomparable. All you can do is to set down the facts in plain, unvarnished words, and leave their sheer accumulation to work what it can. The warning-shell flew northward. We never heard it burst, for within the nearest fraction of time, all the guns of our batteries had got to their work, and every rifle in the trenches had joined in the fell chorus. We could hear nothing but the one mighty sound. The ground trembled underfoot as though we stood on the deck of some fast-going destroyer. The earthen wall at the rear of the dressing-station threw out a dry sweat of dust and little stones and flecks of soil. If one wished to speak to one's neighbour, it could only be done by shouting in his ear. The Turk soon joined in, to the uproar from our own batteries and trenches, was now added the sound of enemy shells. These began to fall uncomfortably near. Peering through the wire work and cotton netting that served us for window-glass, I saw spurt after spurt of smoke rise from various parts of the ravine. Smoke white and grey. Clouds of greenish-yellow, shaped like toadstalls, sprang up in an infinitesimal space of time. Huge, soaring, top-heavy cloud-pillars of Sumerian black. These last were always the biggest and brought with them a hideous double-thunder clap that was the very voice of mischief. The minutes dragged by for us in what was nothing else than an inferno of inactivity. Half an hour passed, and then the winding sunken path that led from the gully-track to the dressing-station filled up with a jostling crowd of men. From that moment until long after dark we were dressing and bandaging for dear life in the literal as well as the figurative sense of the word. The laden stretchers, or as many as the place would hold, were brought inside. The rest were set down hurriedly without, and each bearer-party, seizing a fresh stretcher from the pile in the corner, made off back to the firing-line for another load. With the bearers had come many wounded men who could walk, and these waited in a long queue outside. Can words ever tell to those who have never been through it what it means to do a day's work like that? I have heard men of the R.A.M.C. say that they soon got used to the horror of their trade, and came to think no more of handling shattered human bodies than of anything else. I envy them, but I cannot understand them. All that long use ever brought to me was a great endurance, more redness of resource, more dexterity, and celerity of hand. To grow hard and callous in the face of unimaginable suffering may be a great comfort. It can never, I think, be anything else than a great misfortune alike to the dresser and the dressed. I never worked under a surgeon really high in his profession, who was not, beneath his surface of calm, firm capability, all pins and needles and tenterhooks of compassion. In his humblest sphere the surgeon's dresser does well to be the same. That day ran through the whole of war's gamut of horrors. There was scarce any kind of dreadful laceration that shot and shell can produce, that did not, at one time or other, come dripping and groaning through our door, or come with that stark silence, that uncanny shapelessness, most hopeless of all. We kept goggedly on, hour after hour, and at last the full tide of wounded slackened, the stream thin to a mere trickle, now and then a stretcher case, the bearers staggering and dragging their feet from sheer exhaustion. Now and then a couple of walking cases delayed on the shell-swept road, last of all, one who had missed the path altogether, and then darkness and the gradually slackening fire. Midnight saw the work finished, and our first chance with the bully and biscuits and the dixie of tea that had been cold these last three hours. Yes, this is a weird existence, and standing out here in the darkness under the great canopy of flinching starshine, puffing at my pipe and listening to the song of the bullets, I can see no end to it all. Within a month Gallipoli was surrendered, gloriously evacuated, with all the triumphant subtle art of retreat, which is finer than victory, if you will. The Mediterranean expeditionary force was back at its base in Egypt. Already the new commander-in-chief, Sir Archibald Murray, was at work on his great scheme of Egyptian defence, which was destined to bear such potentious fruit. End of Section 4. Section 5 of With the Royal Army Medical Corps in Egypt by Sergeant Major R. A. M. C. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 The R. A. M. C. In Desert Warfare it has been said that no adequate account of the work done by the Royal Army Medical Corps in Egypt can be given without touching almost at all points on the general history of the war in this part of the arena. This necessity becomes all the more obvious now that we have to deal with events following the evacuation of the Gallipoli Peninsula. As to the wisdom or unwisdom of that step, it is no part of the present writer's business to inquire. It seems to have been largely a question of choice between two policies having a common main object. That object, supreme in its importance to the Empire, was the preservation of the integrity of Egypt, which at bottom meant the protection of the Suez Canal, the great artery through which the best of the life's blood of our Empire flows. No doubt the simplest and sureest means of attaining this end would have been a direct blow aimed at Constantinople, such as was first attempted by what seemed the most likely method, the forcing of the Dardanelles. Even when matters had reached such a desperate deadlock on the peninsula, it was still a question whether, by holding the main Turkish army before us in that far-off region, we were not serving our principal object, the preservation of the Suez Canal, if not in the best conceivable, at least in the best possible way. But rightly or wrongly, the opposite decision was taken. Our army was withdrawn from the Dardanelles, and the greater part of it transported to Egypt, there to be reorganized under a new command for the same task, but under very different conditions. Perhaps in all the thirty-five years of our occupation of that country, no more interesting, indeed fascinating, problem has ever faced our military chiefs, than that which confronted Sir Archibald Murray at the beginning of the year 1916. The original Turkish plans as regards Egypt were well known. There was to be a simultaneous invasion of the country across the desert from the east and from the west, culminating in a Grand Central Rendezvous of Muslimism at Cairo. The conquest of which place was to mark the final expulsion of the Christian, and the termination of his power in Egypt. The Turkish army was to traverse the Sinai desert, and force a crossing of the Suez Canal, while the Bedouin tribes owning allegiance to El Senusi, the chiefs' shake and paramount influence in the western desert, were to combine under that leader, assisted by Turkish officers, and so affect the invasion of Egypt from the west. The situation which faced Sir Archibald Murray on his appointment as commander-in-chief of the British forces in Egypt, early in 1916, was one of considerable gravity. Though the first Turkish attack upon the Suez Canal in the early part of the previous year had resulted in disaster to the invading host, and its more or less complete disintegration as an army, it had not destroyed the Turkish power for mischief in this quarter. Considerable bodies of the enemy remained in the desert east of the canal, wherever water was available, and throughout the following spring and summer made frequent raids on the shipway, their two-fold object being to retain as large a number of our troops as possible in the canal zone, and, if practicable, to lay mines in the canal, and thus put it out of use by sinking a big ship in the fairway. Obviously such a risk to the canal was to be avoided at all costs, and we were compelled to maintain a large force in the area, constantly patrolling the canal banks with a view to detecting and beating off the raiding parties that continually menaced its safety. It became evident, however, as time went on, that such half-measures might soon prove wholly inadequate for their object. So long as the enemy retained a footing in the desert within striking distance of the canal, the uninterrupted traffic of this great highway of the world could never be ensured, and might, indeed, be rendered at any time absolutely impossible. Such a danger to the main communication of the empire was clearly no longer to be tolerated. The great scheme, therefore, of the defense of the Suez Canal in-depth, that is to say, by the creation of a defensive line throughout its whole length, some miles eastward out of the desert, was immediately set on foot. Simultaneously with this new canal defense scheme, the inception of which, it is only right to say, was due to the late Lord Kitchener, preparations were begun for an eastward advance in force, having for its initial object the expulsion of the Turks from the Sinai Peninsula, and for its ultimate object, as all the world knows today, the invasion conjointly with other allied forces of the Ottoman Empire. At the same time, an expedition was organized against the revolted Bedouin tribes in the western desert, which will be dealt with in its place. Before embarking on a narrative of the services and achievements of the Royal Army Medical Corps in these eastern and western campaigns, it will be useful to give an account, as briefly and concisely as may be, of the general organization of the Corps and its procedure during the time of active service, particularly of the various modifications of its systems brought about by the peculiar conditions of desert warfare. Practically none of the R.A.M.C. units in Egypt had any previous experience of active service under desert conditions. The experience gained on the peninsula had been of very little preparatory value, except as regards general endurance of hardship and the perils of war. Our men had, therefore, all to learn in the new life that was now to begin for them, and this was especially true in the case of the officers, both commanding and executive, upon whom devolved the responsibility for the work of the Corps. The functions of the R.A.M.C. in wartime are many and onerous. Foremost among these stands the preservation of the health of the troops, the paramount object towards which the Army Medical Service directs all its energy and knowledge is the maintenance of fighting efficiency, and this can only be assured by a high standard of physical fitness throughout all ranks. The work of preservation of bodily health among the individuals collectively forming an army has endless ramifications. The physical training of the men must be systematically looked after. Food must be of the right constituents, quality, and quantity. There must be a constant and sufficient supply of potable water. Clothing of the troops must be adapted to the exigencies of the climate of the country wherein operations are proceeding. Camp life must be rigorously supervised. The choice of camping sites carefully made. The disposal of excrement of men and animals, as also of all camp refuse, systematically carried out. All this falls within the province of the Medical Service. In addition to the above, there are the collection, treatment, and evacuation of wounded and sick from the Theater of War, their care in the base hospitals, and their subsequent treatment as convalescents, or in the case of permanent ineffective, their conveyance homeward. Moreover, the R.A.M.C. is responsible for the provision of all medical and surgical equipment and material needed by the expeditionary force from first to last. During wartime, the system on which the R.A.M.C. normally works is as follows. An army is composed of a number of divisions, each division consisting of three brigades, and each brigade being again subdivided into four infantry battalions. Each brigade, in addition to its headquarters section, has also detachments of mounted troops, field artillery, engineers, and a complete field ambulance of the R.A.M.C. The brigade, in fact, is a little army complete in itself. Each of the four battalions composing a brigade has its own attached medical officer, who is a member of the R.A.M.C. The duties of an attached M.O. are among the most exacting that can devolve upon a doctor in the army. He is not only general physician to all the men in his battalion during the intervals of a campaign, when there is no fighting on, but the whole work of first aid to the wounded falls upon him during every action. This, however, by no means represents the entire scope of his activities. A good M.O. is nearly as much a moral force with his men as their medical factotum. By keeping close to them in all engagements and sharing all their dangers, with the single object of being instantly on hand when his services are required, he radiates confidence among the men in the battalion to an extent not to be easily overestimated. In injuries where a major blood vessel is involved, life itself often depends on the promptness with which skilled assistance can be obtained, and well the men know it. The proximity of the medical aid post to the firing line is a source of real comfort to the troops engaged, for it gives them that sporting chance at a crisis beloved of all British soldiers. The work of the field ambulance, which is attached to each brigade, begins at the medical aid post. The ambulance is divided into two subsections, a tent subsection and a bearer subsection. The tent subsection manns the advanced dressing station, which is situated in some convenient spot in the rear of the firing line. It also staffs the main dressing station, which is established still farther in the rear. The bearer subsection divides its strength between the four battalion aid posts, and it is its duty to receive the wounded from the medical officer attached to regimental units, and to convey them to the advanced dressing station. The bearer's journeying to and fro between these two points, so long as the action lasts, or there are injured men to be brought in. At the advanced dressing station the wounded receive any further treatment, which may be necessary, but which has been impracticable amidst the stress and hurry of the aid post. They are then passed on by ambulance wagon, or other available means of transit, to the main dressing station, which is, or should be, at such a distance from the firing line, as to be in a comparatively safe situation. These main dressing stations, of which there is one to each brigade, evacuate the wounded to the casualty clearing station of the division. The casualty clearing station is the most medical unit of the fighting army, and is established at the head of the line of communications, this being usually the nearest point on a railway. These divisional casualty clearing stations pass the injured down the line by hospital train to the stationery hospital, which in turn evacuates to the general hospital at the base. Each stationery hospital will receive wounded from one or two or even more casualty clearing stations, and each base hospital will be fed by probably several stationery hospitals. The system, in its entirety, may be likened to a series of sieves, with progressively diminishing measures, by which the various degrees in gravity of wounds or sickness are automatically separated. Very slight cases get no farther than the dressing stations, or even the aid post. Once after treatment they may be summarily returned to duty. Minor injuries and simple cases of indisposition, likely to recover in a short time, are intercepted by the casualty clearing stations, being then returned straight to their units when sufficiently well. The stationery hospitals retain all cases which, though serious, will need no prolonged period for recovery. The general hospital at the base receives all gravely injured men, and those suffering from prime disorders. Here all necessary medical and surgical treatment takes place. Those cases making a good recovery being in due course transferred to convalescent depots, thereafter eventually finding their way back to their units, while those who are permanently incapacitated from military duty are invalid at home in hospital ships. The system briefly described above was, with certain important modifications dictated by local conditions, the one actually followed by the Royal Army Medical Corps throughout the greater part of the time occupied by the Egyptian Campaign and its subsequent developments. At an early stage in the hostilities, however, certain experimental changes were made. It was realized that as operations were to be carried out in a terrain consisting, for the most part, of nothing but trackless desert sand, the ordinary methods of transport by ambulance wagon or motor would be out of the question. Beyond the railhead, which throughout these operations has necessarily been far in the rear, the wounded and sick unable to walk could only be conveyed on the backs of camels or in light ambulance carts with wheels specially devised for traveling over sand. In respect of the camels, several kinds of litter were designed to accommodate lying down cases. Each camel carried a pair of these pannier fashion, the most convenient pattern being that which consisted of a padded metal frame fitting over the animal's back to which the already loaded stretcher could be clipped or bolted. These litters or cacklets were also made in seat form to take patients whose injuries allowed them to travel in the sitting posture. The desert ambulance carts now for the first time brought into use may be best described as large double wire spring mattresses under canvas canopies running on a pair of wheels with very wide tires which rode over rather than plowed through the loose shifting sand. These wheels were boxed in on both sides so that they had the appearance of revolving wooden drums rather than wheels. The carts were drawn commonly by a quartet of mules or horses but draft camels were also employed on occasion. At one time it seemed likely that a sand slade drawn by two mules or horses and accommodating one stretcher would be a valuable and feasible method of transport for sick and wounded over the desert and almost every field ambulance had a sledge of its own manufacturer but officially the sledge idea never came too much. The article eventually supplied by ordinance proving in practice too heavy and cumbersome for routine work over long stretches of sand. The only units which made extensive use of the ambulance sledge were the Australian and other mounted field ambulances. The early experimental modifications in the RMC system for collecting and evacuating wounded in battle involved certain fundamental changes. In the operations on the desert large bodies of our troops in the form of a mobile column were often thrown rapidly forward in advance of the main force and it was considered that a field ambulance even with special desert transport equipment on the lines indicated above was too bulky and ponderous a unit to move as a whole with such a mobile column. For a time therefore instead of field ambulances working in sections in the old way each ambulance was divided into what were called a mobile section to ambulance convoys and a non-mobile section which had all the heavy tentage and paraphernalia of the unit and went by train. The mobile section was a section with a special cut-down equipment the object being while retaining the maximum efficiency to give the transport camels as little weight as possible to carry. This mobile section was provided with camels for cacolets both lying and sitting for carrying stores and for conveying water in fantasies light oblong metal cases. A fleet of sand carts was also provided. The equipment of the mobile section enabled it to establish a dressing station and to collect wounded from the brigade with which it was working. Evacuation from this dressing station was affected by the two ambulance convoys which also each possessed their equipment of sand carts camels for lying and sitting cacolets and camels for carrying water and stores. These convoys formed the connecting link between the mobile section and the so-called non-mobile section the more heavily accoutred part of the field ambulance situated in the rear which moved only by train. The intention underlying the provision of two separate convoys was that where the interval between the fighting troops and the main portion of the ambulance became unduly lengthened owing to the advance of the force engaged the two convoys could operate in relay one behind the other and thus prevent the gap from becoming unworkably large. In practice however this organization developed serious defects. It was too inelastic to fit the varying needs of desert warfare. It was therefore soon given up and a return made to the original trisectional formation but with special modifications indicated by local needs. The sections of each field ambulance officially designated A, B and C were still divided into bearer and tent subdivisions as here to four but with modified equipment and two of the sections B and C were rendered specially mobile the tent subdivision of the A or headquarters section taking the surplus equipment thus being only semi-mobile and still dependent on the railway. Despite this partial return to old and tried methods however something very like a revolution took place in the composition of the field ambulance so far as its equipment for transport was concerned. The old field ambulance possessed ten ambulance wagons six general service or gs wagons four limbered gs wagons three water carts one Maltese cart 104 horses and mules. The ambulance as modified for desert warfare possessed much greater equipment. These innovations though time was destined thoroughly to prove their worth were at first not unattended by difficulties. Some of the early arrangements proved faulty in practice. At first the camels were not permanently stationed with the ambulances but had to be fetched from the Camel Transport Corps when needed. An ambulance under orders to mobilize for action would send to the Camel Transport Corps or CTC for the necessary animals. These would eventually arrive in a long string possibly only a few hours before the ambulance was required to march with the fighting column. Before a move could be made however the cackalette saddles had to be fitted to the camel's backs. Now whereas these saddles were made all to one rigid standard size and pattern by a decree seemingly as unalterable as the laws of the Meads and Persians an unkind providence had so ordained things that no two camel's backs were of the same shape or dimensions. Some were narrow and others broad some had their humps steeply and sharply pyramidal many were of the flat table land formation but the camels had all to be saddled somehow in spite of these deterrents though the process often necessitated hours of anxious contriving. Moreover the camel train frequently arrived very late. On one occasion which came under the notice of the writer the fighting column was due to move off at three o'clock on a pitch dark morning but the camels for the ambulance did not put in an appearance until half an hour before. Obviously it was impossible for the ambulance transport to be ready in time. This camel difficulty was however soon removed by permanently allotting to each ambulance its own special animals for the cackalette work. The requisite number of camels with their native drivers were parked with or near the field ambulance constantly and the care and upkeep of the cackalettes were made part of the general duty of the camelmen. This not only lightened the work of the R.A.M.C. orderlies but it gave them a chance of learning to direct native labor and to pick up a knowledge of Arabic. Acquirements which proved of no little service during the subsequent campaign. For the rest there was a great deal to learn even in the case of the most experienced R.A.M.C. man in the treatment of the sick and wounded under the novel and trying conditions of the desert. The faculty of ready adaptation to environment for which the British soldier is famous was now to prove doubly a necessity with the British field ambulance man. The Turks were not the only foes that opposed us on the Sinai Peninsula. Heat, dust, vermin, blinding, suffocating sandstorms, the terrible camsin which is a red hot hurricane seemingly straight from the throttle of Hades, want of water and everything else needed to support life, the miles of daily march over an eternal sameness of shifting sand. All combined to make up a life that called for steltness of heart even more perhaps than of shoe leather. That our ambulance men made good through it all in the fullest sense of that expressive gutter snipe among popular phrases. It will now be our business to demonstrate by following the course of the campaign. End of Section 5. Section 6 of With the Royal Army Medical Corps in Egypt by Sergeant Major R.A.M.C. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5. Cantara and Katia. The mere layman in military affairs bringing an otherwise fairly well trained intelligence to bear on the problem of the defence of the Suez Canal could scarcely fail to be struck from the very first by certain obvious necessities in the situation. Clearly it was, and always had been, impossible effectively to secure the canal from harm, still less to maintain uninterruptedly its usefulness if the waterway itself were looked upon as constituting its own first line of defence. If the problem had been simply to defend Egypt from the east, if the deep broad waters of the canal could be regarded merely as a barrier to stop an enemy on the principle of a castle moat, well and good, it might then be sound military strategy to employ the canal as a first defensive line against a hostile force advancing over the desert. A line which, with the western canal bank properly fortified and manned, might well prove impregnable. But obviously we could not afford to use the canal in this way. Seeing that, even in times of peace, it formed the great highway of the empire. While now in wartime, it was more throng than ever by our shipping. It's in violability more than ever necessary to the nation's life. It was not difficult, therefore, to understand why, on the direction of affairs passing into the strong hands of Sir Archibald Murray early in 1916, a fundamental change of policy in regard to the defence of the Suez Canal became at once evident. The canal was no longer to be expected to defend Egypt. Egypt was going to defend the Suez Canal, and that in the thorough-paced British way. No time was lost in putting precepts into practice. Parallel with the whole 85-mile stretch of the shipway, and at varying distances eastward, of from two to ten miles, the construction of a barrier of defensive works was at once commenced, with lines of communication to the canal bank in the rear at half a dozen different points. In addition, certain vast areas of low-lying land eastward of the canal were flooded, and kept flooded by pumping machinery, thus rendering them impossible to an enemy, and materially shortening the line to be protected. Upon this new defensive frontier of Egypt, miles out over the Waterless Desert, a large force, a little army in fact, was established and continuously maintained. Roads were made, light railways were thrown out, waterworks, which drew their supply from the Sweetwater Canal westward of the shipway, were erected, and an abundant supply of pure water was conveyed to the troops manning the new defensive line by means of pipes laid from each of the six bases. In addition to these measures, the desert for many miles out was rendered as inhospitable as possible to any detached bodies of the enemy that might be lingering in the district, by destroying certain natural sources of water that existed here and there. Chief among these latter was a Congeries of rock, cisterns, and pools at a place called Wadi-um-Makshiib, some 40 miles distant southeast from Ismailia. Iron engineers raided this spot, and within four days succeeded in draining away a big accumulation of fresh water, and by blasting rendering further accumulations impossible. But all these measures, commendable and necessary as they were to the protection of the canal, constituted only an initial step towards the solution of the far greater problem, the defence of Egypt generally. Though, since their repulse in the early part of 1915, the Turks had given us little more trouble than that arising from various skirmishes between the patrols. We were well aware that the launching of a second and much more formidable expedition against us was very likely to be undertaken. Our evacuation of Gallipoli had released, for employment elsewhere, a force of the enemy, which, on a moderate computation, could not be far short of two hundred and fifty thousand. How many of these would go to swell the army now gathering against us, we had as yet no means of ascertaining. But our air reconnaissance had revealed the fact that the enemy was in great strength in Southern Palestine and in North Sinai, and that a move on his part might conceivably take place at any time. Moreover, we had our own plans now fully developed in this region, and preparations for them, as well advanced as circumstances, would allow. There are three ancient caravan routes over the Sinai desert, by which an approach to Egypt is possible. There is a southern route, starting from Maccabar and finishing at Suez, by which the Mecca pilgrims ordinarily travelled. There is the middle route, which commences at El Ayuzha, on the Turkish frontier, and passes through the Magara Hills and the Gebel Yelog, reaching the canal about midway in its course at Ismailia. This was the road followed by the main part of the Turkish army in its first attack on the canal in January-February of 1915. The third and most northerly route skirts the Mediterranean shore through Rafa and El Arish, striking the Suez Canal at Cantara. It is the only route of the three, upon which fresh water in any but negligible quantity is to be found. Such wells and natural springs as exist, however, except in the Katia district, some twenty-five miles from the canal at Cantara, are so sparsely supplied and are situated at such widely separated intervals as to be of little practical service to any but the few Bedouins who roam the district, or the caravans that occasionally pass that way. In bringing a force of only twelve thousand to fifteen thousand men across the Sinai Desert against us in 1915, the Turks had accomplished the seemingly impossible. To the ordinary students of the situation, the question now presented itself, how would they fare when hard experience had taught them that nothing but an army of real magnitude could be of any avail in the task that they were apparently about to assay. The plan for the defence of Egypt, adopted by Sir Archibald Murray, was one of characteristic originality. Though he had made adequate arrangements for the protection of the whole Suez Canal front, he very early realised that the only practicable arena for hostilities on a large scale lay in the north. The Raphael Arish Cantara Road was the only one by which the enemy could hope to advance against Egypt in any considerable force. Obviously his design would be first to seize and hold the well-watered zone radiating east and southeast of Katia, and then to use this as his advanced base for his main operations against the canal. Just as obviously it was our business to forestall him in the manoeuvre. Katia, as Sir Archibald Murray had from the first recognised, was the true strategic base from which the Suez Canal could alike be most advantageously attacked or defended. Katia, therefore, at the earliest possible moment, must be occupied in strength by British troops. It was a momentous decision, for it proved the beginning of the great British offensive defence policy as regards Egypt, which has since had such far-reaching results. Thus much for the general initial outlook and conduct of affairs relating to the Egyptian Eastern Campaign, which opened in the early months of 1916. We must now take up again the thread of the story of R.A.M.C. doings in this part of the Near East, at the point where we left it, the close of the unhappy, if glorious adventure at the Dardanelles. Transference to Egypt from the shot-and-shell-swept heights of Gallipoli was, to our war-worn ambulances, much like emerging out of stormy winter twilight into the serene haven of a perfect summer's day. On their arrival there, the various medical units were drafted to different localities in Egypt, on the commendable theory that they were now to enjoy a brief but well-earned rest. The field ambulance, to which the writer belonged, was sent to the camp which had been pitched on the desert near the Great Pyramids, some ten or twelve miles from Cairo. Many things have been done well in this faraway part of the theatre of war, but none so well, perhaps, as the creation of this vast camp. Of all the thousands of British soldiers who were quartered there from time to time, it is difficult to believe that one of them went away without carrying with him an impression of good that shall last as long as memory serves. There were no lotus-eaters at Menna camp, nor was it all fair weather. It was too early in the year for the Camzin, the dreaded furnace blast of the desert, with which we were later to become so familiar. But there were sandstorms in plenty to be lived through, and the mirage of rest that had journeyed before us so glamourously turned out to be made of much the same staff as mirages generally. It vanished very early in our stay at Menna, and hard work became the order of the day. These weeks of training, however, the interminable stretcher drill, and Swedish exercises, and long route marches over burning, yielding sands, proved invaluable preparation for the work on the Sinai Peninsula which was to follow. And all too soon, for the life was pleasant enough in spite of its drawbacks, we were striking camp and on the march again for the great unknown land awaiting us beyond the Suez Canal. One who had known Kantara only in times of peace, when it was but a slumberous little post of the Canal Company, with a flag staff and a few low buildings breaking the eternal straight lines of the banks, would have been amazed to see it as we saw it on the bright spring day of our arrival there. The great tidal wave of war had swept down upon it, and at a bound Kantara had sprung into world importance. The waterway now reminded one of the pool of London with its congestion of shipping and busy life. Both banks were crowded with new buildings, and the surrounding country white with innumerable camps. A hum of work pervaded the place. Cars and lorries and vehicles of all kinds thronged the new-made roads and floating bridges. The ground quaked under regiments on the march. Companies were drilling everywhere. The air was full of the clarion of bugles and the mingled sound of working tools, steamsaw and pumping engine, hammer and ads, whistles blowing and sirens booming, all the deep hubbub of labour that one associates with a busy commercial town. We marched through to our allotted camping ground, on the edge of the desert beyond the shipway, feeling that we were once again an integral part of the great machine of war. There was much for our R.A.M.C men to do at Kantara, but still more to learn. The ordinary routine work of the medical units distributed throughout a military camp to military camp of such dimensions was necessarily heavy. There were hospitals to staff, disinfectant stations to run, various outlying dressing-posts to be manned, or the sanitary supervision of the great busy centre to be ceaselessly attended to. Hospital ships improvised from Messers Cook's Nile steamers plied to and fro on the canal between Kantara and the general hospitals at Port Syed, and these ships had also to be staffed and worked. But beyond all this, there was something more important still. The fighting column was swiftly making ready for its move on Katya, and the broad gauge railway steadily forging eastward through the waste of sandy hill and dial. When the column moved, the ambulances must be ready to move with it. And there was a great deal, in fact all, to learn about medical work in wartime carried on under the holy novel conditions of the desert. Almost the entire equipment of the field ambulances had to be changed. In the soft, yielding sand of the desert, the old methods of transport for sick and wounded, as well as material, were obviously useless. Motor ambulances, ambulance wagons, water carts, GS wagons, all would have to be left at the base. In their stead, the light sand cart with its wide tired boxed-in wheels would be the sole practicable vehicle, and this only where the going was exceptionally favourable. In the main, the camel formed the only dependable means of conveyance for anything and everything, once the railhead was left behind. In addition, therefore, to his already multifarious accomplishments, the R.A.M.C. man had now to learn all about camels and their ways. Not only that, but it became also necessary to learn how to manage and direct the camelmen, which meant that some smattering of their language must be acquired. Now, though the camel-drivers were fairly keen of wit, and so amenable to orthodox methods, the camels themselves were far otherwise. Of a truth, the camel is a wearisome, uninspiring beast. He has not a trace of the sporting instinct about him. He takes no interest in anything but his meals, and his one end, and aim in life, is the avoidance of an overload, by keeping up a ceaseless grumbling protestation, all the while his birthing is being adjusted. Also, he is an inveterate backbiter. His cruel jaws are ever ready at the disservice of friend or foe, and many an ambulance man will carry with him to his grave, the marks due to this peculiarly mean-spirited kind of rearguard action. But with it all, the camel is strong, enduring. The desert sun and sand are his native elements. He can carry a four-day's water supply within his own body. His diet is of the simplest. He was indispensable. In fact, to the work our army had in hand. Slowly but surely the railway forged ahead over the shifting torrid sand. Our troops pushed steadily forward in front of it. Father Eastwood still with the mounted patrols, for ever scarring the waste of uncharted hill and dial for signs of the enemy. Our mobile ambulances got on the move at last. Cantaro was left behind, and life on the desert began in real earnest. It is often said by the fighting troops that the men of the medical service have a cushy job in wartime. Plenty of food and water, none of the heartbreaking digging fatigues that make up too large a part of the life of the infantryman. Warm shelter in times of cold, and a cool cover during the many hours of broiling sunshine, with various other advantages. During the intervals of quiescence, when active operations are in abeyance, there is no doubt a certain foundation of truth in this good-humoured but rueful comparison. But in the case of ambulances, attached to a mobile column on the march, there is little to choose between the two services. The same discomforts and privations fall to the lot of each. There are the same sweltering perspiring marches with heavy pack over the burning sands, the same restrictions in rations and water, the same fatiguing duties at the end of each day when a camp has to be prepared. The ambulance, indeed, has then not only its own arrangements to make for the night, it has to provide for the needs of others. Even when going in light mobile order, it must carry with it sufficient tentage accommodation for any casualties that may arise from an emergency action. Failing the occurrence of hostilities, the six bell tents it carries, are pretty sure to be needed for men who have fallen out exhausted by the long hot march and from other causes, and these tents must be pitched as soon as the brigade halts for the day. The first duty must be to provide food, shelter and treatment for the sick. Then there are all the multifarious duties in the formation of the ambulance camp itself, always a large one in comparison with the number of its personnel, the drawings of rations and water for man and beast, lighting of fires and erection of cookhouse, latrines, incinerator, and a host of minor necessities. Lastly there are the night's bivouacs to be prepared. The construction of a bivvy, simple as it may seem, is in reality no easy task, and the novice usually makes a failure of it in the beginning. Our ambulance men were no exception to the rule, but a very few nights on the desert served to bring proficiency. The official theory as to the bivvy seems to be that it can be made out of nothing, for nothing is provided for the purpose. It is wonderful, however, what ingenuity can contrive even out of this slender material. A hole excavated in the sand, long and broad enough to accommodate two men, lying side by side, a stick thrust into the ground at each end, with a piece of string tightly stretched between, and a blanket flung across the string, hip-roof fashion, with its edges sanded down, and there were lodgings for the night. The great difficulty on the desert was to prevent the sand running in after the trench had been dug, but even here experience found a way out of the trouble. It was the surface sand only that ran, we soon discovered. That below was more stable, and would hold up fairly well, provided it was not touched. A ground sheet for a floor and another blanket for bedding, and the minage was complete. Later on, when the summer heat came, palm branches were often collected by our men and used for night cover. They made admirable shelters, and had the additional advantage of rendering the camp inconspicuous, should there be hostile aircraft about. The tops of the bell tents were also decorated with these palm branches, under a like protective policy. The advance in force upon Kachia from the canal base at Kantara was necessarily slow, as the pace was set by the progress made by the railway. Week by week, however, permanent posts were pushed farther and farther ahead, and by the beginning of April, such progress had been made that a flying column was able to carry out a reconnaissance so far eastward as Beer L. Abbott, some fifteen miles on the other side of Kachia, where, though no resistance was encountered, we discovered and destroyed some tents and stores belonging to the enemy. On the 9th of April, a second reconnaissance to Abbott was undertaken, and this time a strong party of Turks was discovered occupying a ridge to the northeast of that place. Our troops promptly attacked, and a sharp skirmish ensued, the enemy being driven from his position, but the heavy nature of the sand prevented our cavalry from undertaking a prolonged pursuit, and we eventually retired. These two reconnaissances of little significance in themselves turned out to be of prime importance, for they marked the beginning of the memorable eastern campaign of the Egyptian expeditionary force. Their special significance lay in the fact that they revealed the presence of the enemy in force within 15 miles of Kachia, the well-watered zone towards the permanent occupation of which our main efforts were being directed. Evidently the Turks meant to dispute its possession with us, for, vital as it was to our own plans to secure this vantage ground, it was no less than matter of life or death to the enemy, with one hundred miles of practically waterless desert now behind him. It was to be a race for Kachia, the prize would go to the swiftest, and all efforts were redoubled on the British side. By April 30th our engineers have succeeded in advancing the railhead as far as El Arras, only seven miles from Kachia. By the same date, bodies of our mounted troops were holding and entrenching not only Kachia itself, but several other strategic points in the coveted water zone. The times were ripe at last for our long planned advance in strength, and the order for the great general move was given. We had, however, a dealtier and more resourceful foe to deal with than we had reckoned upon. The futility of any attempt to forestall us in regard to the Kachia position must now have become apparent to him. Nevertheless, the attempt was made. On April 23rd, a force aggregating in all some 3,500 men with five guns was suddenly launched against three of our outposts, and though the post at Duidar repelled the attack with great loss to their assailants in spite of the fact that our men were outnumbered by about ten to one, the troops garrisoning the two other posts at Kachia itself and at Ogretina, some seven miles northeast of it, after prolonged and gallant fighting, were overwhelmed and all either killed, wounded or captured. The fight at Duidar is memorable in the annals of the Royal Army Medical Corps in Egypt, for it was the first serious affair in which our ambulances were engaged in the Long Desert Campaign. Only a small section, consisting of one R.A.M.C. officer and seven men, with a couple of sand carts, was stationed at Duidar. As soon as word came through that fighting had occurred, another ambulance section was pushed up to assist in the treatment and evacuation of the wounded. This section went under infantry escort and took with it a full complement of sand carts and camels for carrying kakalettes, as well as stores and water. The following account of the journey, as given to the writer by the officer commanding the ambulance, will be of interest, not only in itself, but because it affords a glimpse of the kind of work which the medical servicemen may at any moment be called upon to do, and of the risks run in the ordinary course of their duty. The journey to Duidar was unmolested, though at Hill Seventy we were held up for some time, until the way could be pronounced clear of the enemy by our patrols. Duidar was reached by midday on April the 24th. The place was quiet, but showed marked evidence of the fierce fight on the previous day. Dead animals, horses and camels and dead turks were still lying about. The men stationed there were full of the story of the fight. The turks had got close to the barbed wire of the redoubt. One man was actually killed on the parapet. The detachment of the field ambulance stationed there had a very arduous and exciting time. The medical officer was severely wounded through both legs. One RMC man was killed, while the NCO and two of our privates were wounded. I got the story from one of the survivors of this little band, and I give it here in his own words. We were waken suddenly at 4.30am by whistles blowing, and then we heard rapid rifle fire. We all went to our posts. We knew exactly where to go, as we had had a false alarm the previous week. My post was at the water tanks to stop any leakages that might be caused by bullets. Captain Roberts, the post commandant, gave instructions that the medical officer was to go up at once to the redoubt on the right, where there were casualties. Lieutenant Miller, RMC, ran across, taking Colthart with him. McKinnon and a stretcher-bearer went across to the redoubt in front to attend to wounded, but the officer in charge would not let them take the casualties back, as the firing was too dangerous. About 7.30am Captain Roberts gave instructions that a man who was carrying a message from the redoubt on the right, and who had been struck about fifty yards from the trees, should be brought in. McDonald rushed out and bandaged him up, Richie following with a stretcher. Just before Richie reached them, McDonald was struck in the face, but merely wiping the blood away, he gave Richie a hand with the stretcher. Richie was immediately afterwards struck in the shoulder. In spite of their wounds, these two managed to carry the stretcher about twenty yards, but by this time blood was gushing freely from McDonald's wound, so right and wood doubled out and succeeded in bringing the stretcher in under cover of the trees. At the same time, Corporal Raffin, RMC, seeing both Richie and McDonald's struck, dashed out to give them a hand, but was wounded by bullets through both thighs, just when he got beyond the trees. I was standing near, waiting for an opportunity to run over with water to the men in the redoubt. I dropped the water-bottles I was carrying, and ran across and brought Raffin in by gripping him under the arms. He crawled twenty yards by himself before I reached him. I then carried him across to the opposite side of the trees, where our dressing-tent stood. By this time a relieving company of infantry had arrived on the scene. Their commanding officers orderly came up shouting for RMC men, as some officers were lying out wounded. I went along with two men and brought in Adjutant Crawford and Captain Bruce of the Army Service Corps, or ASC, who had both been wounded to the left of the trees some twenty yards out. Captain Bruce had been hit while endeavouring to bring Lieutenant Crawford in under shelter. I attended to Captain Bruce, but his wound was hopeless, and he died half an hour afterwards. Then I went back to the tent to get more dressings. McDonald had, I found, dressed the wound on his face himself, and he had also contrived to dress and bandage Raffin's wounds. I saw wood lying dead beside him. But McDonald told me that he had been shot through the throat just after he had brought some dressings out to him. Between us we then set to work to get the patients away from the exposed front part of the wood, where the bullets were by now falling thickly. We succeeded in carrying them all back two hundred yards or so, and then redress those of the wounds requiring it. Two more medical officers and some additional RMC orderlies had by this time followed the relieving troops. I saw Lieutenant Miller, RMC, being carried in. I heard afterwards that he had said to Colthart that he would have to leave the redoubt and run across to see how some of the men were getting on. He did not know that other medical officers had arrived by this time. He had seen men dropping amongst the trees, and believed that his services were wanted there. He was strongly advised not to risk exposing himself in the open, but he persisted, and he was badly shot through both thighs and in the hand soon after leaving the redoubt. McDonald and Corporal Raffin were extremely plucky throughout the action. At the end the men crowded round McDonald and shook hands with him, congratulating him on what he had done. Even though his wound on the face was severe, he stayed on duty till eight o'clock at night, only leaving when all the wounded had been dressed and sent off. Corporal Raffin also, in the absence of Lieutenant Miller, remained for a considerable time supervising the collection and treatment of the wounded. He also came across to see how I was getting on at the water tanks. He was very plucky and cool throughout. Both Corporal Raffin and Private McDonald, it may here be added, received the military medal for their conduct during the action. This raid upon Katia carried out so boldly and determinedly by the enemy, though it was partially successful, left the general situation wholly unchanged. The attacking forces were eventually driven off with heavy loss, and so effectually was their discomforture completed by our mounted troops and aircraft during their retirement eastward, that they were able to make no further attempt to oppose our advance for several months to come. We were left to complete our railway to the coveted water-bearing zone, and there to establish ourselves firmly in accordance with our original scheme. End of section six