"'E leaned over an' read from a little tag pinned to me tunic:
"'G.S.W. left face; two, right shoulder. Cot.'
"Then 'e carried on:
"'H'it means that you 'ave a gunshot wound, a bullet through the left side o' your clock, an' two bullets through the right shoulder, an' that you're a cot case, which means that you won't 'ave to bloody well walk. Two of us poor blokes will 'ave to carry you on a stretcher. You sure are a lucky bloke; pretty cushy, I calls it.'
"I awsked 'im if the wounds were good for Blighty.
"He answered:
"'Yes, they're good for Blighty, an' h'I'm a thinkin' that they're good for a discharge. That right h'arm o' your'n will be out o' commission for the rest o' your life. Your wife, if you've got one, will bloomin' well 'ave to cut your meat for you, that is, if you're lucky enough to buy any blinkin' meat on the pension the Top 'Ats at 'ome will 'and you.'
"A feelin' o' pride ran through me. In a 'ospital o' wounded soldiers, a severely wounded case is more or less looked up to, while a man with a slight wound is treated as an ordinary mortal. I could read respect, per'aps mixed up with a little h'envy, in the h'eyes o' the surroundin' Tommies.
"The door at the h'end o' the ward h'opened. A 'owl came from the cot on me starboard, an' a gruff Irish voice shouted:
"'Close that damned door. You bloomin' 'ospital men 'ave no sinse at all. 'Ere I am, knocked about by a blinkin' shell an' the likes o' youse puts me in a bloody draught. It's a good thing we 'ave a n'vy; with the likes o' you blokes in the h'army, we certainly need one.'