Fitzpatrick, only sixteen years old, returned to Canada, but he felt just as Lib felt, and his wound healing perfectly he became sound as ever and again enlisted. He has since been wounded again, healed again, and at this time is probably fighting round Cambrai. Just think of it, you slackers! Only nineteen and the veteran of a dozen tremendous battles.
After being spoiled by everybody, I at last was sent from the hospital to a convalescent camp. Here I cut loose, the reaction setting in. I was arrested and cautioned, and, having thoughts of a visit home, I decided to behave myself for awhile and apply for sick leave. My repeated applications were for awhile ignored, but at last I said to myself that I must swing the lead. I asked to be paraded in front of the Colonel. I managed to acquire a look of awful suffering on my face, as I walked wearily in to see him on my crutches. Without waiting to be told, I flopped into a chair with a groan, the realism of which surprised myself.
"Well, what is the matter, son?" said the Colonel, as he subsided into his chair after the start he had at my wonderful groan.
In a husky voice, like that of a man absolutely worn out, I replied, "I would like a few weeks' leave, sir."
"Oh, and for why, pray? Are you not comfortable here?"
I began to unwrap my stump, and presently held it up for inspection. "Look at it, sir," with another splendid groan.
"What is the matter with it? Yes, it does look inflamed."
I knew it was inflamed; I had suffered quite a little pain making the stump acquire the inflamed appearance it had for this particular occasion, and I wanted him to see it before it lost its color. He touched it, and he nearly collapsed as I let a bawl out of me that shook the building.
"Gee whiz, sir, don't, for goodness sake, hit it again."
"Why, my man, I barely touched it."