The Carpenter had not gone into the army, so here he was, still on the planet.
"But 'ere, give me your 'and," he said, ripping open his ragged shirt.
"I'm fit for the anatomist, that's all.

I'm wastin' away, sir, actually wastin' away for want of food.

Feel my ribs an' you'll see." I put my hand under his shirt and felt.

The skin was stretched like parchment over the bones, and the sensation produced was for all the world like running one's hand over a washboard.
"Seven years o' bliss I 'ad," he said.

"A good missus and three bonnie lassies.