He dropped, -- more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; -- Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will."
A low voice said, "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead: Bold uncles, smiling ministerially; Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."
We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded; -- stout lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"
Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"