I felt apologetic: I had chosen a bad time to come, just when the doctor was busy with this other man. I asked who the fellow was, and learned he was a private from “D” Company. I was very grateful for the Bovril. A good idea, this, I thought, having Bovril ready for you.
I waited about ten minutes, sitting on a chair. I listened to the movements and low voices inside. “Turn him over. Here. No, those longer ones. Good heavens, didn’t I tell you to get this changed yesterday? Now. That’ll do,” and so on. I turned my head round in silence, observing acutely every detail in this antechamber, as one does in a dentist’s waiting-room. All the time in my arm I felt this numb wasp-sting; I wondered when the real pain would start; there was no motion in this still smart.
“Now then, Bill,” said the doctor. “So sorry to keep you. Let’s have a look at it. Oh, that’s nothing very bad.”
It smarted as he undid the bandage. I don’t know what he did. I never looked at it.
“What sort of a one is it?” I asked.
“I could just do with one like this myself,” said the doctor.
“Is it a Blighty one?”
“I’d give you a fiver for it any minute,” answered the doctor. “I’m not certain whether the bone’s broken or not, but I rather think it is touched. I can’t say, though. A bullet, did you say? Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” I laughed.
“Well, it must be one of these explosive bullets, an ordinary bullet doesn’t make a wound like yours. That’s it. That’ll do.”