"You've come back again, Flan?" Bowdy said, and gripped him by the hand.
"Yes, I'm back again," he answered.
"Glad to be with us?" Bowdy queried. "Glad to leave London and come out here?"
"Of course I am," he answered, handing Benners a cigarette.
The confession staggered Benners, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything; nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally succeeded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent Blighty one!
"Why have you come back?" Bowdy asked. "Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess-tin of tea."
"A mess-tin of tea!" he exclaimed, as Bowdy bent over the brazier. "God, it's good to hear that, old man! The cups are so small at home. Little things. But a mess-tin full! Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches! One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here; there's nothing petty in the job. But at home—the soft beds—but I could not sleep; the little tea-cups—but I had no appetite; the politeness, the swank, the fine dresses—but the whole thing made me ill. We've been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals—I couldn't stick it!"
"You're a big fool, Flan," said Benners, as he fanned the brazier with a week-old copy of an English paper. "I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry...."
"You think so," said Flanagan, "but you'd soon change your mind. I spent two months in hospital, then I was sent to a convalescent camp. But my shoulder wouldn't mend; you know I got it in the shoulder. I couldn't raise my arm; something was dislocated. But that didn't matter.... The convalescent camp was a damned nice place, near Brighton and beside the sea. There was an old sergeant-major, a rheumaticky old fellow who talked through his nose. But a good fellow all the same. We called him Nick Nock. He had no end of trouble with us, the Old Sweats, and he was always on the look-out for me. Got my name into his head somehow, and maybe I was not easy-going enough for a rheumaticky old man. He must have been about sixty-five.
"We slept in huts. Nick Nock would come to the door of our hut in the early morning. 'Are yer all in bed yet?' he would shout. (Flanagan gave an imitation of a man speaking through his nose). 'Are yer never goin' to get up? Where's Flanagan?'