"Yes—decent bit, isn't it!"
"Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere, to lay me up for months."
His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing:
"I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that hell up the line!"
"'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?"
"Sure!"
The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily.
A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible.
"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?"
The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it. Suddenly a man shouted from the background: