Thus it was I came to know that the comrade I had brought back into our trench was my friend, Jot.
I stayed in the hospital for several days, during which time they fed me on light stuff, as though I were an infant, instead of a full-sized doughboy, and I was losing strength. I wouldn’t have stayed there contentedly that long, but to assure myself of Jot’s recovery. Then I kicked.
“There is nothing the matter with me, doctor, except I am faint with hunger. I shall starve unless you give me something man’s size to eat!”
“Give him something hearty,—an egg on toast,” ordered the doctor, “and keep him quiet.”
Then I knew I was in for “low diet” some more.
“Lieutenant Nickerson wants to see you,” said the nurse. So I went to his cot.
“What is it, Jot? Are you better?”
“Head’s a little sore, but otherwise fit as a fiddle!”
“Well, look out,” I said, “or the doctor will starve you.”
Jot smiled, and then said, “I want to thank you for saving my life. You have always managed to stand between me and trouble from the first; and now you have got between me and death, Davie.”