Apparently not. Fritz continues to stare woodenly at the roof of the dock-shed.
"I should like to tell 'im a story, Jock," says the Corporal to his other neighbour. "My job is on a hospital train. 'Alf-a-dozen 'Un aeroplanes made a raid behind our lines; and seeing a beautiful Red Cross train—it was a new London and North Western train, chocolate and white, with red crosses as plain as could be—well, they simply couldn't resist such a target as that! One of their machines swooped low down and dropped his bombs on us. Luckily he only got the rear coach; but I happened to be in it! D' yer 'ear that, Fritz?"
"I doot he canna unnerstand onything," remarked the Highlander. "He's fair demoralised, like the rest. D' ye ken what happened tae me? I was gaun' back wounded, with this—" he indicates an arm strapped close to his side—"and there was six Fritzes came crawlin' oot o' a dug-oot, and gave themselves up tae me—me, that was gaun' back wounded, withoot so much as my jack-knife! Demorralised—that's it!"
"Did you 'ear," enquired a Cockney who came next in the line, "that all wounded are going to 'ave a nice little gold stripe to wear—a stripe for every wound?"
There was much interest at this.
"That'll be fine," observed a man of Kent, who had been out since
Mons, and been wounded three times. "Folks'll know now that I'm not a
Derby recruit."
"Where will us wear it?" enquired a gigantic Yorkshireman, from the next stretcher.
"Wherever you was 'it, lad!" replied the Cockney humourist.
"At that rate," comes the rueful reply, "I shall 'ave to stand oop to show mine!"