Brent looked scared. He did not want to go to hospital.
“I’m just done in, sir. I’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“Will you!” said the doctor tensely, pulling out a note-book and beginning to scribble, resting his foot on Brent’s box, and the note-book on his knee.
“Name and number?”
“I don’t want to go to hospital, sir.”
“Don’t argue. Name and number?”
“No. 756941 Pte. Beckett, T.” said Brent.
“Unit?”
“2-9th Fusiliers.”
“Bring him along to the medical inspection room, will you? Street by the church.”