“Hum, too bad. I heard the guy they shot there last week croaked. The bullet went right thru his leg, and the quack dressed the place where it went in all right, but forgot to see if it came out. Gangrene set in and his leg rotted off, and they had to shoot him. Now a feller your build— say, it wouldn’t go through at all. Just stay there and fester—”
But his victim was gone.
Tommy flew badly that morning. He was all in, his head ached and, besides, he was worrying about that interview with Major Herman Krause. And then he had to practise landings—nervous work at best in an unfamiliar ship. Finally he blew a tire and was bawled out unmercifully by the instructor.
Luckily it was on his tenth and last trip, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the lecture was over and he could go. He went to the barracks and policed up. Shave, shine, but no shampoo. There was hardly enough water for drinking and shaving, and that was brought many miles in tank wagons. Bathing was something one went without at Issy—and felt not much the worse unless the scabbies set in.
Once militarily clean, Tommy dragged himself to headquarters, entirely ruining the new shine so painfully acquired. He entered the presence of the adjutant feeling like a whipped schoolboy. He saluted and stood at attention.
“Sir, Lieutenant Lang to speak to the commanding officer.”
The adjutant kept on writing for about five minutes at a desk stacked with piles of reports. Then he looked up savagely and spoke with a slight accent:
“What? Oh, yes. What for?”
“About the Paris Express.”