“How long does it take a broken arm to heal, Buzz?”
“Two or three weeks–maybe four. You had a bad break. Maybe a little longer. You’re lucky, after all–maybe.”
“What do you mean, lucky?” Red looked at him quizzically.
“Well, some of the boys haven’t gotten off so easy.”
“See here, Buzz, I’m tired of snatches of news. Tell me all you know about–about everything. Back here the war seems so far away–and unreal. Except for all these wounded men, and the uniforms, I’d never think of it. No guns, no action, no–no dawn patrols. I feel like a fish out of water. But there 207must be some little old war going on up there. I’ve heard about Chateau-Thierry, by piecemeal. Boy! It was the big show starting the very morning I got it, and we didn’t even know it. Just my luck to get forced down at a time like that!”
“Maybe not so tough,” Buzz answered. “A Blighty, if it doesn’t cripple, is not so bad. Our casualties have been nearly forty per cent, from one cause or another.”
“No!” Red exclaimed in surprise.
Larkin nodded, dourly. “They sure have! We’ve been up against von Herzmann’s Circus most of the time, and that fellow hasn’t any slouches on his roster. That was one of his outfit that cracked your engine.”
“Really? Did you get him?” Red asked, his face alight with interest.
Larkin shook his head. “No luck. I ducked to follow you. But Fouche got him–his first that morning.”