He was knocking the back of his head against the floor, hoarsely uttering some word which he kept repeating.
Rostov listened and made out the word.
It was "drink, drink, a drink!" Rostov glanced round, looking for someone who would put this man back in his place and bring him water.
"Who looks after the sick here?" he asked the assistant.
Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in from the next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostov.