“Hullo, Bill, old man,” said the little doctor, coming out quickly. “Where’s this thing of yours? In the arm, isn’t it? Let’s have a look. Oh yes, I see. (He examined the bandage, and the arm above it.) Well, I won’t be long. You won’t mind waiting a few minutes, will you? I’ve got a bad case in here. Hall, get him to sit down, and give him some Bovril.”
And he was gone. No man could move or make men move quicker than the doctor.
I felt apologetic: I had chosen a bad time to come, just when the doctor was busy with this other man. I asked who the fellow was, and learned he was a private from “D” Company. I was very grateful for the Bovril. A good idea, this, I thought, having Bovril ready for you.
I waited about ten minutes, sitting on a chair. I listened to the movements and low voices inside. “Turn him over. Here. No, those longer ones. Good heavens, didn’t I tell you to get this changed yesterday? Now. That’ll do,” and so on. I turned my head round in silence, observing acutely every detail in this antechamber, as one does in a dentist’s waiting-room. All the time in my arm I felt this numb wasp-sting; I wondered when the real pain would start; there was no motion in this still smart.
“Now then, Bill,” said the doctor. “So sorry to keep you. Let’s have a look at it. Oh, that’s nothing very bad.”
It smarted as he undid the bandage. I don’t know what he did. I never looked at it.
“I could just do with one like this myself,” said the doctor.
“I’d give you a fiver for it any minute,” answered the doctor. “I’m not certain whether the bone’s broken or not, but I rather think it is touched. I can’t say, though. A bullet, did you say? Are you sure?”
“Well, it must be one of these explosive bullets, an ordinary bullet doesn’t make a wound like yours. That’s it. That’ll do.”
“I can’t make out why there’s not more pain,” said I.
“Oh, that’ll come later. You see the shock paralyses you at first. Here, take one of these.” And he gave me a morphia tabloid.
“Cheero, Bill,” he said, and I went out of the dug-out leaning on a stretcher-bearer. Round my neck hung a label, the first of a long series. “Gun-shot wound in left forearm” it contained. I found later “? fracture. 1.15 a.m., 7.6.16.”