The Death of Hope

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“Mr Orpington! A pleasure to see you. When were you released from hospital?”

“Four weeks ago, sir.”

The young second lieutenant spoke with a slight slur, his left upper lip thick with scar tissue that extended across his cheek, under the eye and round to the ear. His whole face was slightly lopsided, the scarring tugging at his right cheek and lips.

“I had feared that you might never return to active service, Orpington.”

“I was lucky, sir. Three in the belly that missed liver and kidneys and everything important. They hurt, nothing more. The one across the face took longest to heal, sir. Only just back to chewing solid food. They wanted me to go back to hospital for another operation, or two or three, to reduce the scar tissue. I’ve had enough of hospitals! I was passed fit for service three days ago and was permitted to join your 8th Battalion, sir. Might be an advantage of the scar, sir, giving me a bit of leeway, you might say, the base-wallahs a bit nervous of the warrior returning to battle. Seems to be the way the bloody fools think in England, sir! I know I am an extra – but only for a week or two, I expect!”

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