"Now, I must leave you," said the doctor. "I see there's a case of shell
shock. We didn't know how to handle that for a while. The British R. A.
M. C. for some months declined to recognise it as requiring treatment at
all. You might care to look at this chap. Poor devil!"
Barry had been looking at the man ever since he had come into the room,
supported by two of his comrades. He was indeed an object of pity.
Of splendid physique, six feet and powerfully built, with the fine
intelligent face of an educated man, he stood there white, twitching in
every muscle, in a state of complete nerve-collapse.
Colonel Tait, who had been observing him keenly ever since his entering
the room, now approached him, greeted him with a cheerful "Hello!" took
him by the hand and felt his pulse.
"How are you, old chap? Feeling a little better than you were, aren't
you?"
"Yes--doc--tor. Rather--rotten--though--Be all right--to-morrow--"
"Sure you will! Still a little rest won't do you any harm. We'll send
you down for a couple of weeks, and then you will be fit enough to have
another go at the boche.
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