"Going to lose 'em?"

"Don't know. Can't feel much at present. Hope not."

Then the questioner raises himself on his elbow. "How's it going?"

_It_ is the attack. The conversation that follows is always how we're
hanging on to such and such an objective and have pushed forward three
hundred yards here or have been bent back there. One thing you notice:
every man forgets his own catastrophe in his keenness for the success
of the offensive. Never in all my fortnight's journey to Blighty did I
hear a word of self-pity or complaining. On the contrary, the most
severely wounded men would profess themselves grateful that they had
got off so lightly. Since the war started the term "lightly" has
become exceedingly comparative. I suppose a man is justified in saying
he's got off lightly when what he expected was death.

I remember a big Highland officer who had been shot in the
knee-cap. He had been operated on and the knee-cap had been found to
be so splintered that it had had to be removed; of this he was
unaware. For the first day as he lay in bed he kept wondering aloud
how long it would be before he could re-join his battalion. Perhaps he
suspected his condition and was trying to find out. All his heart
seemed set on once again getting into the fighting. Next morning he
plucked up courage to ask the doctor, and received the answer he had
dreaded.

"Never. You won't be going back, old chap."

Next time he spoke his voice was a bit throaty. "Will it stiffen?"