The Missing Flute

I used to see Rhys Lewis regularly at regimental gatherings, but then I realised I had not heard his croaky voice and guttural laugh for some time. I enquired about his welfare and was told he was unwell; I found where he lived and paid him a visit. For an old soldier who, as he claimed, had never had cause to see a doctor in his life, the discovery that he had become a victim of diabetes was both a mental and body blow.
A few weeks later, I heard that Rhys, as a result of the disease, had had his left leg amputated. I went to see him again and when he heard voices in the sitting room, he bounced down the stairs on his bottom. I stayed with him for half an hour and he was in his element telling me about his service in far-distant places.
After the passage of another three months I was told that Rhys had had his other leg amputated, so I went to see him again. His wife let me in and I could see from her sad expression that events had taken a turn for the worse. She led the way upstairs and motioned me to enter a bedroom. Rhys was lying on a low bed with his eyes shut. He had never been a big fellow and now that he had lost his legs, there was hardly anything left.
"The officer from Brecon has come to see you," she said - and then quietly to me: "He hasn't eaten anything for a week." The bedclothes had been thrown back to reveal a torso that was nothing but skin and bone. Slowly his eyelids fluttered and he looked towards me. The instinctive movements came flooding back to this old soldier as he saw an officer of his regiment standing by the side of his bed. His skinny arms straightened and he drew them tight alongside his stumps. He continued to lie at 'attention' until I said: "At ease, Rhys." We spoke a few words to each other but I could see the effort was too much for him. I was about to go when Rhys whispered to his wife: "Alice, get me my flute." Alice went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box which she opened and gave to her husband. "I want you to have this flute, Major," said Rhys. I am not an expert on musical instruments, but I could see it was a valuable article in near perfect condition. I offered to sell it for him, but he became agitated and reiterated that he wanted me to have it. He signalled me to come closer and whispered: "You see, Major, it's not mine to sell. I've had it ever since I joined the Corps of Drums in India in 1935."
I promised the old man I would ensure it went back to the Drums' store of the First Battalion. NO NAME - NO PACK DRILL. He smiled and then, with a peaceful look on his face, closed his eyes and went to sleep. He died an hour later.

Post script: Rhys and Alice Lewis are pseudonyms for the real people.