"A laugh went up from the rest. Then a Tommy on my port answered this outburst with:
"'Bloody nerve, I call it. 'Ere 'e is, a-covered with blankets an' grousin' about a little drawft, an' not many hours back 'e was a-lyin' in a bloomin' shell 'ole, with the wind a-blowin' the whiskers off'n 'im, an' 'e a-prayin' for the stretcher-bearers. I'll wager a quid 'e belongs to the Royal h'Irish Rifles.'
"The man on me starboard retorted:
"'No, I'm not in the Royal Irish Rifles, but I belong to a good outfit—the Royal Dublin Fusileers, an' I can lick the man that says they ain't. So don't get so damn sharp.'
"Just then, from amidships in the ward, came the voice of a stretcher-bearer:
"Jones, get the M.O." (Medical Officer). "Hurry up—quick! This poor bloke's a-goin' West."
"The man 'oldin' my 'and suddenly let go 'is grip, an' a-risin' to 'is feet, 'urriedly left the ward. There was dead silence 'tween decks. I tried to turn in the direction from which the first voice 'ad come, but the sharp pain in me shoulder warned me that I was on a lee shore.
"In a few seconds the door h'opened an' I could 'ear low voices down in the corner. I could see the Tommies around me h'intently gazing in this one direction. Awfter a few minutes the door again h'opened an' closed, an' Jones came back. I looked up at 'im an' 'e solemnly nodded.
"One more bloke 'ad gone West for 'is King an' Country.