“That’s not your duty,” said the Colonel. “Your duty is to be with the men, in the firing line, ready to render first aid when required.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but I don’t think that you’re quite right in saying——”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said the Colonel, “that it isn’t the duty of a medical officer to accompany the men into the firing line?”
McMahon saluted again.
“According to the instructions issued by the R.A.M.C., sir,” he said, “my place is in the advanced dressing station when there’s only one medical officer attached to the unit in action. If there is more than one the position is, of course, quite different.”
The Colonel, though a soldier of long experience, was not at all sure what instructions the R.A.M.C. authorities might have issued to their officers. And doctors are a powerful faction, given to standing together and defying anyone who attempts to interfere with them. Besides, no one, not even the strongest and healthiest of us, knows how soon he may find himself under the power of a doctor, seized with a pain or other form of discomfort which only a doctor can alleviate. It is never wise to push things to a quarrel with any member of the R.A.M.C.
The Colonel turned away and, somewhat laboriously, climbed his tree. He was anxious, if possible, to make McMahon do a little work. It was annoying to think that this young man, horribly addicted to slacking, should be lying on his back in the shade. Yet he did not at once see his way to any plan for making McMahon run about in the heat.
It was while he scanned the position of B Company through his field glasses that an idea suddenly occurred to him. He climbed down rapidly and found McMahon standing respectfully to attention at the foot of the tree.
“You told me, I think,” said the Colonel, “that this is the advanced dressing station?”
“Yes, sir.”