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Story Notes:

I've been writing a lot of serious WWI stuff lately and am feeling the need of a bit of light relief, so here, for your delectation and delight, is a story about flirtation, starring Lt. Tristan Denny and a sandy-haired rascal named Sampson.

It's a lot less serious than the OP makes it seem!

'…shell blast…concussion…’

‘…knocked unconscious…’

‘…quite a nasty wound on the spine, there…’

‘…chance of paralysis…’

‘…base hospital…’


‘Ahh!’

Lieutenant Tristan Denny was flung roughly back into consciousness and his astonishment was voiced in an agonised cry. Someone was manhandling him; he was being held on his side by a pair of rough hands, and then somebody else repeated the action which had brought him round, for his back was prodded, and the torment provoked another pained exclamation. There was a satisfied noise somewhere above him.

‘No local loss of sensation. Good.’

He was rolled back over and, thrilling with indignation, he opened his eyes. Two doctors appeared, spinning around somewhere not too far above him.

‘Urgh…God…’

Swallowing hard against the wave of nausea that surged up from his guts to his throat, he closed his eyes again.

‘Aha! Welcome back, lieutenant.’

‘Ngh…’

‘Bad, but not urgent, corporal. Get him on the train as soon as the serious cases are out of the way. You’re going to hospital, Lt. Denny. Lucky old thing, eh? Right, who’s next?’




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