"You've lost the knee-joint," the doctor said, "but with luck we'll
save the leg."

His voice sank to a whisper. "If you do, it won't be much good, will
it?"

"Not much."

He lay for a couple of hours silent, readjusting his mind to meet the
new conditions. Then he commenced talking with cheerfulness about
returning to his family. The habit of courage had conquered--the habit
of courage which grows out of the knowledge that you let your pals
down by showing cowardice.

The next step on the road to Blighty is from the Casualty Station to a
Base Hospital in France. You go on a hospital train and are only
allowed to go when you are safe to travel. There is always great
excitement as to when this event will happen; its precise date usually
depends on what's going on up front and the number of fresh casualties
which are expected. One morning you awake to find that a tag has been
prepared, containing the entire medical history of your injury. The
stretcher-bearers come in with grins on their faces, your tag is tied
to the top button of your pyjamas, jocular appointments are made by
the fellows you leave behind--many of whom you know are dying--to meet
you in London, and you are carried out. The train is thoroughly
equipped with doctors and nurses; the lying cases travel in little
white bunks. No one who has not seen it can have any idea of the high
good spirits which prevail. You're going off to Blighty, to
Piccadilly, to dry boots and clean beds. The revolving wheels