"There's a chance for the left eye," he remarked to me, as we passed out into the hall, "but the right eye will have to be removed as soon as he is able to stand the operation."
(Apart from this loss, in the course of time, he recovered perfectly.)
We went into the room of a young officer from British Columbia, who had also just reached the hospital. He was a tall, handsome, fair-haired youth. He rose to his feet, trembling violently, as we entered. He was still dressed and after we had passed the customary greetings I enquired:
"Have you been wounded?"
"No," he replied with a smile, although his lip quivered as he spoke. "I wish I had been. It's rotten luck to get put out of business like this. I got in the way of a 'Jack Johnson'; it played me a scurvy trick—shell-shock, they tell me, that's all."
It might be all, but it surely was enough. There is nothing more pitiable than the sight of a strong, active young man, trembling continuously like an aspen leaf. Shell-shock, that strange, intangible condition which leaves its victims nervous wrecks for months or years, was uncommon in the early days of the war, but with the advent of thousands of guns is much more common now.
We chatted with him for a little while, and then continued our pilgrimage to the larger wards. Nursing Sister Medoc, a tall graceful girl, a typical trained nurse, met us at the door.
"Here's a strange case, Major," she remarked, as she pointed to one of the new arrivals who had just been placed in bed. "He is quite insane and thinks he is still in the trenches, but he refuses to speak."
"He must be insane if he won't speak to you, Sister," Reggy suggested facetiously.
"That will be quite enough from you, young man," she returned with calm severity.