Our Casualty, and Other Stories Part 6

"Can't be done," said the Major. "If it were any other hospital--but the people in No. 73 don't like me."

The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients of their wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, insufficiently, occasionally even wrongly, described and cla.s.sified. The Major invariably called attention to these mistakes.

The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did not want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little tired of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly.

"By the way, Miss Willmot," he said, "it's all right about the men's Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in the cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorks.h.i.+re pudding.

Heaven knows what it will be like?"

"If they'll only follow the receipt I gave them----" said Miss Willmot.

"_If_," said Digby. "But those cooks are rotters."

"Anyhow," said the Major, "there'll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, plum pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in the canteen. They'll not do badly, not at all badly."

He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of three in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men's dinner, and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for an hour at the canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas carols. From three to four was the only time left at which he could dine. But that thought did not spoil his satisfaction.

Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity.

"There's one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir," he said. "Will he get any Christmas dinner?"

He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back up his charitable appeal.

"Ah," said the Major, "I'm afraid I can't do much for him. It's a serious charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I'm afraid there's no doubt about the facts. I'm sorry for him. He's quite young; but it's a disgraceful thing for any man to do."

The Major's face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour had little pity to expect from the Major.

Miss Willmot looked up.

"Is it very bad?" she asked.

"One of those cases of self-wounding," said the Major. "Shot himself in the leg with his own rifle."

There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half frantic by terror, worn out with hards.h.i.+ps, hopeless of any end of his sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and pays the penalty.

"Poor fellow!" said Miss Willmot. "Poor boy! What he must have gone through before he did that!"

"He went through no more than any other man went through," said the Major; "but they stuck it and he s.h.i.+rked. There are men enough who deserve our pity, Miss Willmot We can't afford to waste sympathy on cowards."

Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than the Major's lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for cowards.

The Major himself was not wholly consistent As he rose to leave the kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again.

"He doesn't look like a man who'd do it. He looks like a gentleman. That makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn't look it."

"Well?" said Digby, when the Major left.

"I can't do anything," said Miss Willmot "In a case of this kind there's nothing to be done."

But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen.

There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with contempt.

Sergeant O'Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted.

"Terrible weather, miss. I'll never say again that it rains in the County Galway. Sure, it doesn't know how. A man would have to come to France to find out what rain is."

"Sergeant," said Miss Willmot, "I want to speak to your prisoner."

Sergeant O'Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for her. They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O'Rorke when he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish nature altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to take risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He had an Irishman's feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to apply to ladies like Miss Willmot.

"Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?" he said.

"No," said Miss Willmot, "I didn't ask anybody's leave."

"That's a pity now," said O'Rorke; "but sure the Major would never have said no if you'd have asked him."

He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell.

"Prisoner, 'tention," he said.

Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which lay rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of zinc A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room.

Miss Willmot stared at him.

Then she turned to Sergeant O'Rorke. "Shut the door please, sergeant, and wait outside."

The young man neither stirred nor spoke.

"Tommy!" said Miss Willmot.

"7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wess.e.x Borderers."

He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury.

"Tommy," said Miss Willmot.

"Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge of deliberately wounding himself in the leg."

"Tommy," said Miss Willmot again, "you didn't do that."

The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished.

"Miss Willmot," he said, "for G.o.d's sake don't tell Nelly that I'm here."

"You didn't do it," said Miss Willmot.

"Of course I didn't do it," he said. "There's been some infernal blunder. I didn't know what the d.a.m.ned idiots meant when they put me under arrest I didn't know what the charge was till they marched me in to the C.O. here. He told me. Oh, the Army's a nice thing, I can tell you. I was expecting to get my stripe over that raid when I got hit with a bullet in my leg, and here I am charged with a coward's trick. I suppose they'll prove it I suppose they've got what they call evidence.

I only hope they'll shoot me quick and have done with it I don't want to live."

Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to the corner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanket She talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she sat there with him. Before she left, hope had come back to him.