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[Page 14]
to struggle through a mile or so of mud; a maze of treacherous shell-holes, & with only a vague idea of the direction of your next station. You are accompanied by the groans of your patient, & menaced by the constant shower of lead & iron. You stumble into mud up to your middle, trip over the hundreds of telephone wires crossing each other in the mud in every direction. There are old battered trenches to be crossed, & field of shattered barbed wire through which to find a path. But somehow, more by instint, or with a sense of feeling with your feet, you eventually
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