There is something unreal about him; he is like a stage hero. He has a
way of saying, "Now, my men, who is going to volunteer to fetch the
dinners?" which is like an invitation to go over the top.
The men gape when he says that, then go on with their cards. It is like
a joke.
Before his operation he was full of partially concealed boastings as to
how he would bear it, how he would "come to" saying, "Let me get up! I
can walk...."
I felt a sneaking wish that he should be undone and show unusual
weakness.
When the moment came he did as he had said he would do--he laughed and
waved good-bye as he was wheeled away; and in the afternoon when I came
on duty I found him lying in his bed, conscious, looking brown and
strong and unconcerned.
But he can't let well alone....
As I passed up the ward to the bedside of the Welsh private I was
called by the sergeant, and when I stood by his bed he whispered, "Is
that chap making a fuss over there?"
"Evan?"
"Chap as has had an operation the same as me...."
"He's very bad."
"You don't find me making a fuss and my leg isn't half giving me
something."
"We're not all alike, sergeant."
"Why should one make a fuss and another say nothing?"
"Is your leg hurting you a lot?"
"Yes, it is," and he screwed up his face into a grimace.
After all, he was a child. "Try to go to sleep," I said, knowing that it
was his jealousy that was hurting him most.