Our Casualty, and Other Stories. George A. Birmingham
exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. And a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a list made out for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatment adopted in each case and the nature of the injury, just as if you were going to send it to the medical officer at the casualty clearing station.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it must be done properly,” said the Colonel. “No shirking. No short cuts. I don’t see why you shouldn’t practise your job like the rest of us.”
He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intended to keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day.
McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did not attempt to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel’s plan. He was determined to defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peaceful afternoon, and had no intention of exhausting himself bandaging up men who had nothing the matter with them or compiling long lists of imaginary injuries. After five minutes’ thought he hit upon a scheme. Ten minutes later the first casualty arrived.
“Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir,” said the man. “Orders are to report to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir.”
“Left thigh?” said McMahon.
“It was the left the Colonel said, sir.”
“All right,” said McMahon. “Orderly!”
The orderly, who had found a comfortable couch among some bracken, roused himself and stood to attention in front of McMahon.
“Take this man round to the far side of the tree,” said McMahon, “and let him lie down there flat on his back. You can give him a cigarette. He is to stay there until he gets orders to leave.”
The orderly saluted. The man grinned. He was quite ready to lie under the tree without attempting to move until someone ordered him to get up.
In the course of the next ten minutes six more casualties arrived. Their injuries were of several different kinds. One man reported that his thumb had been taken off by a machine-gun bullet. Another said he had a scalp wound. A third had lost a whole leg, severed at the thigh. A fourth had a fragment of shell in his stomach. A fifth was completely blinded. A sixth was suffering from gas poisoning. McMahon’s treatment never varied. Each man was given a cigarette and led off by the orderly to lie down in the shade at the far side of the tree. McMahon kept quite cool, refreshed himself occasionally with a drink of lemon squash, and smoked his pipe. He began to admire the activity of the Colonel’s imagination. For two hours casualties poured in and every one had a different kind of wound. There was scarcely any part of the human body with which McMahon was not called upon to deal. And the Colonel never once repeated himself. Before four o’clock about a third of the battalion and half of the officers were lying, very well content, in the shade under McMahon’s care. Many of them were sound asleep.
The orderly was a man with a sense of military propriety. He insisted on the casualties lying in straight rows, as neatly aligned as if they were on their feet at parade in the barrack square. At last the stream of wounded grew slacker and finally ceased to flow. Between half-past four and five o’clock not a single man came to report himself wounded. McMahon, lighting a fresh pipe, congratulated himself. Either the Colonel’s knowledge of anatomy was exhausted and he was unable to think of any more wounds, or the battle was over, and there was no further excuse for inventing casualties. McMahon got up and stretched himself. He handed his novel, the two empty soda-water bottles, and his tobacco tin to the orderly, and bade him pack them up.
“No cigarettes left, I suppose?” he said.
“No, sir, not one. In fact, sir, the last twenty men didn’t get any. Weren’t enough to go round them all, sir.”
“Ah,” said McMahon, “it’s been an expensive afternoon for me; but I don’t grudge it. Those poor fellows wanted a smoke and a rest badly. Besides, I’ve had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful.”
He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the men who lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, complained that he was bored.
“I say, McMahon, can’t I get up and go back to the mess? What’s the good of my lying here all the afternoon?”
“You’ll lie there,” said McMahon severely, “until you get orders to go. And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won’t be able to stir till the padre comes, and I haven’t the least idea where he is, I doubt if he’s out with us at all to-day.”
“What the dickens has the padre got to do with it?” said the officer.
“You’ll find that out in time. For the present you’ve nothing to do but lie still.”
“But hang it all—— I say, McMahon, can’t you finish off and let me go?”
“I?” said McMahon. “I’ve finished with you long ago. There’s nothing more for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre.”
The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a little nervous and agitated.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “The Colonel’s just coming, sir. He and the General. He’s drove up in the General’s car; and I’m afraid they’re both coming here, sir.”
McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were skirting the oats and making for the little grove of trees where the casualties were.
McMahon went to meet them.
“Ah, McMahon,” said the Colonel, “I’ve come to see how you’ve treated the wounded. I’ve brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? Had a busy afternoon?”
The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully.
“Got your list made out?” said the Colonel, “and your report on each case? Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see them.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but have you given orders for the padre to report here?”
“Padre?” said the Colonel. “What do you want the padre for?”
“The padre and a burying party, sir,” said McMahon. “The fact is, sir, that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn’t do anything for them, sir. Dead before they got to me. I’ve had them laid out, if you’d like to see them, sir. It’s all I could do for the poor fellows. It’s the padre’s job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so there was no need for me to make a list, and of course I didn’t attempt any treatment. It wouldn’t have been any use, sir, when the men were dead.”
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