“I can’t make out why there’s not more pain,” said I.
“Oh, that’ll come later. You see the shock paralyses you at first. Here, take one of these.” And he gave me a morphia tabloid.
“Cheero, Bill,” he said, and I went out of the dug-out leaning on a stretcher-bearer. Round my neck hung a label, the first of a long series. “Gun-shot wound in left forearm” it contained. I found later “? fracture. 1.15 a.m., 7.6.16.”
Outside Lewis was waiting with my trench kit. He had appeared a quarter of an hour back at the door of the dressing-station, and had been told by the doctor so rapidly and forcibly that he ought to know that he would go with me to the clearing station, and that he had five minutes in which to get my kit together, that he had fairly sprinted away. Poor fellow! How should he know, seeing that he had been my servant over six months, and I had never got wounded before? But the doctor always made men double.
As I passed our dug-out, Edwards, Owen, Paul, and Nicholson were all standing outside.
“Cheero,” I shouted. “Good luck. The doctor says it’s nothing much. I’ll be back soon.”
“What about that Lewis-gun position?” asked Edwards.
“Oh,” I said, “I want to keep that position on the left.” Then I felt my decision waver. “Still, if Wetherell wants the other ... I don’t know.”
“All right. I’ll fix up with Wetherell. Good luck. Hope you get to Blighty.”
I wanted to say such a lot. I wanted to say that I was sure to be back in a week or so. I wanted to think hard, and decide about that Lewis gun. I wanted to send a message to Wetherell apologising for what I had said.... I wanted to talk to Sergeant Andrews, who was standing there too. But the stretcher-bearer was walking on, and I must go as he pleased.