“If you want something crass,” said a man missing an arm, “come sit by my bed for a while.” With the only hand left to him, he patted the edge of his bed, then puckered his thin lips into a kiss.

Sister Morley, who was in charge of the ward, strode over to me. The banter stopped.

“Could I have a word please, Mrs. Owen?”

“She’s got plenty, sister,” said my one-armed suitor. “Just check her pockets.”

I rested my hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Can I visit tomorrow?”

“I’d like that, missus.”

“It’s Esme, remember?”

“A new patient came in yesterday,” said Sister Morley as we left the ward. “I was wondering if you would sit with him. I’ll give you a basket of bandages to roll; that should keep your hands busy.”

“Of course,” I said, grateful she hadn’t asked me to turn out my pockets.

We walked the long corridors to another ward. They all looked remarkably alike: two rows of beds, and the men tucked into them like children. Some were sitting up, almost ready to go back out and play; others were supine and barely moving.

Private Albert Northrop sat up in his bed, but there was something about his vacant stare that made me think he wasn’t going anywhere else for a while.

“Do they call you Bert? Or Bertie?” I asked him.

“We call him Bertie,” said Sister Morley. “We don’t know if that’s his preference, because he doesn’t speak. He can hear well enough, apparently, yet he’s somehow unable to comprehend the meaning of words—with one exception.”

“Which is?” I asked.

Sister Morley put her hand on Bertie’s shoulder and nodded her goodbye. He just stared ahead. Then she walked me back along the ward. Only when we were out of earshot did she answer my question.

“The word is bomb, Mrs. Owen. If he hears it, he responds with absolute terror. A learned response, according to the psychiatrist: it’s an unusual form of war neurosis. He was at the Battle of Festubert, but he seems unable to recall any of it. When he’s shown photographs of the men he served with, he shows no sign of recognition. Not even his own possessions seem familiar to him. His physical wounds were relatively minor; I fear the injury to his mind will take longer to heal.” She looked back towards Bertie. “If there is reason to take out one of your little slips of paper while you sit by his bed, Mrs. Owen, that will be some small cause for celebration.”

Sister Morley bade me goodnight and said she hoped to see me at six p.m. the following day.

“And by the way,” she said, “every patient on this ward has been instructed not to say the word, though none are too keen on it themselves. We would all be most grateful if you could avoid it also.”