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smackenzieCaptain Bradford releases his wrist. "Get my first aid kit and then go."
Davies fumbles with the pocket of the captain's tunic that contains the packet of gauze dressings, gets one out, and presses it against the bleeding wound. Captain Bradford covers it with his hand.
"Hope no one saw you do that," he says, and winks. "Go on."
Davies finally shoves himself to his feet and follows his platoon.
This attack is not as successful as previous attacks, however, and the battalion has to retreat. Davies catches more shrapnel from a shell exploding nearby, this time badly enough to send him to the first aid post back at the trenches. Dr Craig takes one look at him, deems him not serious enough to merit immediate attention, and sends him even further back behind the line to a dressing station.
The trek to the dressing station is mud and puddles from end to end – cold half-frozen mud and puddles, even. All along the route are men dragging themselves away from the front line and towards medical care, wounded soldiers interspersed with stretcher bearers. Davies sees Naylor and Powell leaning on each other, and comes up next to them to help. Naylor is bleeding from the shoulder and Powell is limping, but at least they're both still on their own feet.
"Lt Fiske was hit in the head," Powell says. "Caught by a sniper. Don't know if he'll live."
Davies doesn't know what to say to that, and so says nothing. It doesn't seem right for Lt Fiske to come back from having been wounded only to be wounded again. Besides, Davies and the rest of the men liked him.
By the time they finds the dressing station, Naylor is nearly unconscious and Davies is faint from exhaustion. There are no empty beds so, with the assistance of Davies and Powell, Naylor is laid on the ground on his groundsheet. An orderly gives Davies and Powell the once-over and then makes Davies sit on the remains of a wall and submit to a quick inspection of all his shrapnel wounds.
"Can you walk?" the orderly asks. Davies nods, too tired to answer with words. "Can you make it to the casualty clearing station on your own? We're all full up." He gestures around at the men lying on cots and stretchers and the ground, most of them seeming to be in desperate need of immediate medical attention.
"I don't think I can walk that," Powell says, sitting down. He stretches his leg out in front of him and the orderly kneels down and feels it from ankle to thigh. Powell winces.
"I don't feel any breaks," the orderly tells him. "Can't tell if you were hit or not, though. Were you?"
"I don't know."
The orderly starts scraping the mud off Powell's trousers and puttees, trying to find any bleeding wounds. Davies slides off the wall to land on the ground and lean back against the broken brick. He feels a little better with something holding him up.
"I think you got a sprain," the orderly says to Powell. "Did you fall and twist your ankle or your knee or anything?"
"I tripped and fell into a shell hole," Powell says. "Could be."
"Wait here until we get an ambulance to take you to the clearing station. And you" – he points to Davies – "you look like you're about to pass out. How much of this blood is yours?"
Davies shrugs. He catches sight of his hands, still covered in Captain Bradford's blood. "I got caught by shrapnel twice."
The orderly is examining him as they talk, patting down his chest and arms and legs, trying to scrape some of the mud off like he did with Powell. "I don't think this is as bad as it looks, but you can't walk to the CCS. I'll get you in an ambulance." He goes off, returning a couple of minutes later to swab all of Davies' wounds, or at least as many as he can find, and to bandage some of the worse ones. And then he leaves them.
Davies and Powell have to wait for what seems like hours – Davies lets himself pass out – but eventually they're loaded onto a horse-drawn ambulance with another wounded man and carted off to the CCS.
The other wounded man, coincidentally enough, is Captain Bradford. His wounds look hastily dressed and he's not conscious, but Davies can see his chest rise and fall under his mud- and blood-caked tunic.
At the casualty clearing station Powell is taken in one direction – since he doesn't even need stitches, much less surgery – and Davies another, where an orderly peels off his clothes, cleans all his shrapnel wounds, and sews up a couple of long deep ones on his leg. Davies grinds his teeth as the suture needle passes in and out of his flesh, pulling black silk thread across the gashes in his leg. The orderly bandages him up and makes him lie down, but Davies is worried about Powell and more worried about Captain Bradford, and won't sit still.
"Don't make me strap you down," the orderly threatens. Davies just glares. The orderly does not look cowed. Davies crosses his arms over his chest. The orderly is still unmoved. Davies huffs a sigh and lies down, and the orderly finally leaves.'
Davies has no idea where they'll send him after this, if he's bound for a base hospital or back to the front line or where. He wants to get up and look for Captain Bradford and Powell, but he's a bit worried that the orderly will come back and strap him to the bed.
He can't sleep, can't even doze, and the men in the closest beds don't seem like chatty types. A couple of them are asleep, anyway. So he waits. Eventually another orderly comes by to look at his dressings, and Davies asks about Captain Bradford and Powell. The orderly has no idea.
After he's gone, Davies slides off the cot, puts his boots back on, and sneaks off to find the captain, because by now he's worried enough that he just has to know how he is. It is vitally important that Davies see someone not die, that he know that at least someone will survive.
Davies finds him just as he's coming out of surgery. And he will never know what convinces the doctor to let him sit with Captain Bradford until he wakes up, just that the doctor does.
words: 1024
total words: 36,903
note: i have a vague idea how the chain of medical care worked at the front, but also i'm totally winging some of it.
Davies fumbles with the pocket of the captain's tunic that contains the packet of gauze dressings, gets one out, and presses it against the bleeding wound. Captain Bradford covers it with his hand.
"Hope no one saw you do that," he says, and winks. "Go on."
Davies finally shoves himself to his feet and follows his platoon.
This attack is not as successful as previous attacks, however, and the battalion has to retreat. Davies catches more shrapnel from a shell exploding nearby, this time badly enough to send him to the first aid post back at the trenches. Dr Craig takes one look at him, deems him not serious enough to merit immediate attention, and sends him even further back behind the line to a dressing station.
The trek to the dressing station is mud and puddles from end to end – cold half-frozen mud and puddles, even. All along the route are men dragging themselves away from the front line and towards medical care, wounded soldiers interspersed with stretcher bearers. Davies sees Naylor and Powell leaning on each other, and comes up next to them to help. Naylor is bleeding from the shoulder and Powell is limping, but at least they're both still on their own feet.
"Lt Fiske was hit in the head," Powell says. "Caught by a sniper. Don't know if he'll live."
Davies doesn't know what to say to that, and so says nothing. It doesn't seem right for Lt Fiske to come back from having been wounded only to be wounded again. Besides, Davies and the rest of the men liked him.
By the time they finds the dressing station, Naylor is nearly unconscious and Davies is faint from exhaustion. There are no empty beds so, with the assistance of Davies and Powell, Naylor is laid on the ground on his groundsheet. An orderly gives Davies and Powell the once-over and then makes Davies sit on the remains of a wall and submit to a quick inspection of all his shrapnel wounds.
"Can you walk?" the orderly asks. Davies nods, too tired to answer with words. "Can you make it to the casualty clearing station on your own? We're all full up." He gestures around at the men lying on cots and stretchers and the ground, most of them seeming to be in desperate need of immediate medical attention.
"I don't think I can walk that," Powell says, sitting down. He stretches his leg out in front of him and the orderly kneels down and feels it from ankle to thigh. Powell winces.
"I don't feel any breaks," the orderly tells him. "Can't tell if you were hit or not, though. Were you?"
"I don't know."
The orderly starts scraping the mud off Powell's trousers and puttees, trying to find any bleeding wounds. Davies slides off the wall to land on the ground and lean back against the broken brick. He feels a little better with something holding him up.
"I think you got a sprain," the orderly says to Powell. "Did you fall and twist your ankle or your knee or anything?"
"I tripped and fell into a shell hole," Powell says. "Could be."
"Wait here until we get an ambulance to take you to the clearing station. And you" – he points to Davies – "you look like you're about to pass out. How much of this blood is yours?"
Davies shrugs. He catches sight of his hands, still covered in Captain Bradford's blood. "I got caught by shrapnel twice."
The orderly is examining him as they talk, patting down his chest and arms and legs, trying to scrape some of the mud off like he did with Powell. "I don't think this is as bad as it looks, but you can't walk to the CCS. I'll get you in an ambulance." He goes off, returning a couple of minutes later to swab all of Davies' wounds, or at least as many as he can find, and to bandage some of the worse ones. And then he leaves them.
Davies and Powell have to wait for what seems like hours – Davies lets himself pass out – but eventually they're loaded onto a horse-drawn ambulance with another wounded man and carted off to the CCS.
The other wounded man, coincidentally enough, is Captain Bradford. His wounds look hastily dressed and he's not conscious, but Davies can see his chest rise and fall under his mud- and blood-caked tunic.
At the casualty clearing station Powell is taken in one direction – since he doesn't even need stitches, much less surgery – and Davies another, where an orderly peels off his clothes, cleans all his shrapnel wounds, and sews up a couple of long deep ones on his leg. Davies grinds his teeth as the suture needle passes in and out of his flesh, pulling black silk thread across the gashes in his leg. The orderly bandages him up and makes him lie down, but Davies is worried about Powell and more worried about Captain Bradford, and won't sit still.
"Don't make me strap you down," the orderly threatens. Davies just glares. The orderly does not look cowed. Davies crosses his arms over his chest. The orderly is still unmoved. Davies huffs a sigh and lies down, and the orderly finally leaves.'
Davies has no idea where they'll send him after this, if he's bound for a base hospital or back to the front line or where. He wants to get up and look for Captain Bradford and Powell, but he's a bit worried that the orderly will come back and strap him to the bed.
He can't sleep, can't even doze, and the men in the closest beds don't seem like chatty types. A couple of them are asleep, anyway. So he waits. Eventually another orderly comes by to look at his dressings, and Davies asks about Captain Bradford and Powell. The orderly has no idea.
After he's gone, Davies slides off the cot, puts his boots back on, and sneaks off to find the captain, because by now he's worried enough that he just has to know how he is. It is vitally important that Davies see someone not die, that he know that at least someone will survive.
Davies finds him just as he's coming out of surgery. And he will never know what convinces the doctor to let him sit with Captain Bradford until he wakes up, just that the doctor does.
words: 1024
total words: 36,903
note: i have a vague idea how the chain of medical care worked at the front, but also i'm totally winging some of it.
