Everyone Brave is Forgiven

by Chris Cleave

The doctor called him in after ten minutes. He was a portly man with side whiskers, in a white cotton jacket with gold insignia—the effect, to Alistair’s eye, falling somewhere between avuncular surgeon and cruise ship maître d’. The man remained seated behind his desk, not looking up when Alistair came in. “Heath?” he said. “Doctor.” “Be seated. Nothing the matter, I hope?” “Nothing,” said Alistair. “No aches, pains, unscheduled loss of limbs?” “I find I don’t much care for seafood.” “Good man,” said the doctor, inking his rubber stamp. Holding it poised over Alistair’s paper, he looked up for the first time. “And how’s morale?” “Mine, or the men’s?” “Isn’t it the same thing?” “Morale is fine,” said Alistair. “France, wasn’t it, and then back across from Dunkirk?” “Awful little town. Not one fish-and-chip shop.” “No inflections of mood, no irritability, no anxiety?” “No.” “Any shell shock, jellification of the spine, malingering hottentottery?” “Hardly.” The doctor thumped down his stamp and slid the paper over. “First class. Give this to the C/O when you get back to barracks. I daresay you’ll be posted soon?” “Looks that way.” “Good luck. Take quinine if it’s Cairo, take salt if it’s the desert, take precautions if it’s a local girl. Avoid gin unless good tonic is available, smoke no more than one pack, and keep anything made of