“And that you’re prepared to deal with casualties?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I shall send some casualties down to you,” said the Colonel.
“Yes, sir, certainly.”
“I shall expect,” said the Colonel, “that each man shall be properly treated, exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. And a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a list made out for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatment adopted in each case and the nature of the injury, just as if you were going to send it to the medical officer at the casualty clearing station.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it must be done properly,” said the Colonel. “No shirking. No short cuts. I don’t see why you shouldn’t practise your job like the rest of us.”
He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intended to keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day.
McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did not attempt to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel’s plan. He was determined to defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peaceful afternoon, and had no intention of exhausting himself bandaging up men who had nothing the matter with them or compiling long lists of imaginary injuries. After five minutes’ thought he hit upon a scheme. Ten minutes later the first casualty arrived.
“Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir,” said the man. “Orders are to report to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir.”