There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving around the beds; but they were very dim—in fact, nothing seemed real at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it passed away suddenly.
When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying.
What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.
"You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now."
"I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can."
"Then sleep, my dear fellow."
Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and the scene was absolutely clear.
He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses—each wore a red cross.
Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that—his right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his best. Then a thought flashed through his mind.
"Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."