The Seed of Empire by Fred M. White

A naturally strong constitution and a frame hardened and toughened by exposure stood in Ginger's favour, so that from the very first he began to mend. It was his own opinion that the end of a month would see him back in the trenches again, a thing that he longed for with his whole heart and soul. For Ginger had found that he had a vocation in life, and his own proper pride told him that he was no longer a human derelict thrown from pillar to post but a real live asset and respected as such by the state.

At the same time, he was extraordinarily grateful even for the smallest kindness. He could not grasp the reason why these ladies should pay him so much attention. Even if he had been in the same class as themselves, even if he had been brought up amongst them and shared their instincts and traditions, they could not have made more of him. From time to time since he had taken his shilling and enrolled himself as a soldier of the King, he had given occasional stray thoughts to what might happen to him if he were wounded. What the procedure would be in that case he had the vaguest possible notions. He was under the impression that he would be thrown into a tent or a hut somewhere, where he would be left to recover and perhaps occasionally see a doctor who would dress his wounds for him. In the course of his life Ginger had had one or two illnesses, and he had fought through these in some miserable garret or other, more or less looked after by some outcast only a little less wretched than himself. He had not grumbled, for this kind of thing had been his lot and seemed likely to be so for the rest of his natural life. He did not realise that there were thousands and thousands of his own class picked up out of the gutters by the recruiting sergeants and now in process of being moulded into useful citizens.