"Yes," I answered, fumbling in my pocket.
"Well, give it to somebody as 'asn't got none," said Bill, "I'm off the smokin' a bit."
The case was really serious since Bill could not smoke, a smokeless hour was for him a Purgatorial period, his favourite friend was his fag. After tea I went with him to the dressing station, and Ted Vittle of Section 4 accompanied us. Ted's tummy was also out of order and his head was spinning like a top. The men's equipment was carried out, men going sick from the trenches to the dressing-station at the rear carry their rifles and all portable property in case they are sent off to hospital. The sick soldier's stuff always goes to hospital with him.
I stood outside the door of the dressing-station while the two men were in with the M.O. "What's wrong, Bill?" I asked when he came out.
"My tempratoor's an 'undred and nine," said my comrade.
"A hundred and what?" I ejaculated.
"'Undred point nine 'is was," said Ted Vittle. "Mine's a 'undred point eight. The Twentieth 'as 'ad lots of men gone off to 'orsp to-day sufferin' from the same thing. Pyraxis the M.O. calls it. Trench fever is the right name."
"Right?" interrogated Bill.
"Well it's a name we can understand," said Ted.
"Are you going back to the trenches again?" I asked.