An orderly corporal filled in admission forms and handed them to us; each form containing the sick man’s regimental number, name, religion, age, and length of military service, in addition to several other minor details having no reference at all to the matter in hand.  These forms were again handed over to another orderly corporal, who stood smoking a cigarette under the blue-lettered notice pinned to the door.

The boy with the sore throat was sitting in a chair in the room when I entered, the doctor bending over him.  “Would you like a holiday?” the M.O. asked in a kindly voice.

“Where to, sir?”

“A couple of days in hospital would leave you all right, my man,” the M.O. continued, “and it would be a splendid rest.”

“I don’t want a rest,” answered the youth.  “Maybe I’ll be better in the morning, sir.”

The doctor thought for a moment, then: 

“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.”