His voice thickened with revolt.
"It was on a day when there was nothing doing. You understand? As quiet as you please. I lay in a dug-out, reading a letter from my bonnie girl. Along comes a shell and explodes in the entrance—on a quiet day after all my chances. Disgusting's what I say. A fifteen months' job so far, and they took pieces of that letter out of me in France. They took them out of me on the hospital boat. They took them out of me here."
His eyes twinkled.
"And I guess there's some wee paragraphs still there."
But the twinkle died. The discontent returned.
This man had a grievance beyond the manner of his wounding. By chance it developed. My companion fumbled in his pocket and produced some small change.
Perhaps," he suggested, "you'd like to drink to the memory of those days."
The sergeant's discontent exploded.
"A British soldier!” he cried. A sergeant in his Majesty's army! Me drink! I'm a baby. A blessed, swaddling infant."
He tapped the blue band on his arm.
"Just because I'm under hospital treatment I can't have my glass of beer. That's gratitude
