The cheeriness and patience of the wounded men exceeds belief. Perhaps
it is due to a realisation of the proximity in which they have stood to
death; perhaps partly to that feeling of relief with which a man turns
for a spell from war to peace. In any case it is remarkable. A poor
fellow--a private in the Buffs--was hit at Zagai, and had his arm
amputated at the shoulder. I expressed my sympathy, and he replied,
philosophically: "You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs," and
after a pause added, with much satisfaction, "The regiment did well that
day." He came of a fighting stock, but I could not help speculating on
the possible future which awaited him. Discharge from the service as
medically unfit, some miserable pension insufficient to command any
pleasures but those of drink, a loafer's life, and a pauper's grave.
Perhaps the regiment--the officers, that is to say--would succeed in
getting him work, and would from their own resources supplement his
pension. But what a wretched and discreditable system is that, by which
the richest nation in the world neglects the soldiers who have served it
well, and which leaves to newspaper philanthropy, to local institutions,
and to private charity, a burden which ought to be proudly borne by the
State.
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