“Bli’ me,” he said, “they’ve gawn an’ gyve me a ticket to th’ bloomink end o’ Scotland!”
“Is it a mistake?” I asked.
“Mistyke!” said he. “Is it a mistyke? Hit’s a mistyke that tykes in th’ whole bloomink ge-hography of Britain.”
He communed with himself a moment in eloquent but inelegant language. Then he asked:
“Where’ve they ticketed you to, myte?”
I hadn’t thought of looking at my ticket, but now I noted that I was destined for “Chelsea, London, S. W.” So he outlined a scheme to which I readily agreed. We exchanged tickets.
I adopted his name “Bill Mortimer” of the Rifle Brigade and soon I was making for “th’ bloomink end o’ Scotland,” while he was en route for Chelsea under his assumed name.
When I arrived in an Aberdeen Hospital, they were a good few days trying to account for me, as my papers had naturally gone to Chelsea. Ultimately they came to the conclusion that there must have been an error at Southampton; and sure enough, my record was finally located at the London hospital.
It was one of the best errors that could have happened, for very soon I found myself in the “Craigleith Military Hospital” within commuting distance of my relatives and friends. I never heard any more of my friend “Bill Mortimer,” but I have no doubt the “error” proved a good one to him also.
Two medical officers looked me over very carefully the first day. The next day they came back accompanied by the chief medical officer, Colonel Cottrill. After the latter examined me carefully he said that “an immediate amputation would be the wisest plan.” He asked me whether other examining physicians had told me the same thing.