A young soldier sits alone in a wheelchair at dusk, legless and shivering in his hospital clothes. He listens to boys playing in the park, their voices reaching him like a distant, sad hymn before sleep pulls them away. Before the war, this hour was full of light and flirtation—girls’ glances, the buzz of the town—but that was before he "threw away his knees." Now he's cut off from all physical warmth, their touch feeling to him like something diseased.
He thinks back on his reasons for enlisting: vanity about his good looks, a drunk impulse after a football match, a desire to seem a "god in kilts" and to impress a shallow girlfriend. He lied about his age and was swept off with drums and cheers, never imagining the real horror. Homecoming brought only a solemn fruit-bearer asking about his soul, and now he faces years in institutions, ignored by women who look past him to able-bodied men. The mood is one of numb coldness and regret—a life bartered for a moment of hollow glory, leaving only the slow, aching question: why won’t someone just come and put him to bed?