"It's hard to say," I remarked, fanning the fire with a newspaper. "Felan, the cook, who was wounded in the charge a month ago, got a bullet in his shoulder. It came out through his back. I dressed his wound. It was ghastly. The bullet pierced his lung, and every time he breathed some of the air from the lung came out through his back. I prophesied that he would live for four or five hours. I had a letter from him the other day. He's in a London hospital and is able to walk about again. He was reported dead, too, in the casualty list."
"Some people pluck up wonderfully," said Dilly. "Is the tea ready?"
"It's ready," I said.
We sat down together, rubbing our eyes, for the smoke got into them, and opened a tin of bully beef. The beef with a few biscuits and a mess-tin of warm tea formed an excellent repast. When we had finished eating we lit our cigarettes.
"Have you got any iodine?" Dilly suddenly inquired.
"None," I answered. "Have you?"
"I got my pocket hit by a bullet coming up here," Dilly answered. "My bottle got smashed."
Iodine is so necessary when dressing wounds. Somebody might get hit during the night....
"I'll go to the dressing-station and get some," I said to Dilly. "You can have a sleep."