Torrington fumbled under his canvas pillow; found his cigarette-case; stretched arm and shoulder out of blankets to light a “Gold-flake.” He looked very ill: black eyes bright with fever; pale hair damp on damp brow. The anaemic lips over the prominent teeth quivered as he drew in the smoke.
“Feeling pretty rotten,” he announced.
“You never ought to have come out.”
“No. . . . I don’t suppose I’ll last very long. But I had to have another cut at the Boche. Besides, it doesn’t look well for a B.C.[[4]] to hand his battery over to some one else as soon as it’s ordered abroad.”
“Well, I think you’re a damn fool,” said Peter. Every one in the Divisional Artillery, from General Blacklock to his own Battery Sergeant Major, had tried—and tried in vain—to keep Torrington at home.
“Possibly. It’s this marching that does me in. I’m as stiff as the devil tonight.” He turned over uneasily in his “flea-bag.” “You don’t want to go to sleep yet, do you?”
“No. Give me one of those filthy gaspers. All right, don’t you move; I’ll get them.”
They lay smoking for a few minutes. There are few reticences on active service; and soon both felt the need for intimate talk.
“Does it hurt much—being wounded?” asked Peter.
“Like hell. At least, mine did.”