"I don't know, sir."
"Was it rheumatic pains last time?"
"No sir, it was jaw-ache—toothache, I mean."
"I'll put you on light duties for the day," said the M.O. And the rheumatic one and I went out together.
"That's wot they do to a man that's sick," said the rheumatic one when we got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's light duties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderly room and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you 'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your own bit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers' mess, or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Light duties ain't arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't ten times better, and I'm going to grease to the battalion parade."
Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversack on the wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gun unfastened; his whole general appearance was a discredit to his battalion and a disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentable as he bellowed his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin'," he said. "Left my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no time for it now. Anyway I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me. I know what they are." He was still protesting against the hardships of things as he swung out of sight round the corner of the street. Afterwards I heard that he got three days C.B. for disobeying the orders of the M.O.
Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practically immune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course, sprains and cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of the battalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches," a company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agrees with him.