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Page 6
"All right, report to-morrow again," he said. "You're a brave boy.
Some, who are not the least ill, whine till one is sick--what's the
matter with you?"
"Sore foot, sir," I said, seeing the M.O.'s eyes fixed on me.
"Off with your boot, then."
I took off my boot, placed my foot on a chair, and had it inspected.
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know, sir. It pains me when marching, and sometimes--"
"Have you ever heard that Napoleon said an army marches on its
stomach?"
"Yes, sir, when the feet of the army is all right," I answered.
"Quite true," he replied. "No doubt you've sprained one of yours;
just wash it well in warm water, rub it well, and have a day or two
resting. That will leave you all right. Your boots are good?"
"Yes, sir."
"They don't pinch or--what's wrong with you?" He was speaking to the
next man.
"I don't know, sir."
"Don't know? You don't know why you're here. What brought you here?"
"Rheumatic pains, I think, sir," was the answer. "Last night I 'ad an
orful night. Couldn't sleep. I think it was the wet as done it. Lyin'
out on the grass last field day--"
"How many times have you been here before?"
"Well, sir, the last time was when--"
"How many times?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Was it rheumatic pains last time?"
"No sir, it was jaw-ache--toothache, I mean."
"I'll put you on light duties for the day," said the M.O. And the
rheumatic one and I went out together.
"That's wot they do to a man that's sick," said the rheumatic one when
we got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's light
duties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderly
room and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you
'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your own
bit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers'
mess, or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Light
duties ain't arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't ten
times better, and I'm going to grease to the battalion parade."
Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversack
on the wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gun
unfastened; his whole general appearance was a discredit to his
battalion and a disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentable
as he bellowed his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin',"
he said. "Left my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no time
for it now. Anyway I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me.
I know what they are." He was still protesting against the hardships
of things as he swung out of sight round the corner of the street.
Afterwards I heard that he got three days C.B. for disobeying the
orders of the M.O.
Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practically
immune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course, sprains
and cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of the
battalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches,"
a company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agrees
with him.
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