LITMIR.BIZ

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first casualty to be brought back to the relative safety of the sangar was the medic. Luckily, he had no more than a bullet graze to his arm and someone had already applied a temporary dressing.

      ‘I need to get back out there, sir,’ he yelled. ‘It’s only a graze.’

      ‘It might be only a graze but it’s going to keep you out of action for a few days,’ Nick responded firmly.

      Quickly he examined the wound. The bullet had passed through the flesh of the medic’s upper arm. Right now there was little Nick could do except clean it again and rebandage it. When they got him back to camp he would do a more thorough job. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, they’d get out of this with only this one casualty.

      But it wasn’t to be. The sound of gunfire increased, as did the noise on the radio.

      ‘Five men pinned down—Americans among them,’ Captain Forsythe muttered. ‘They’re holing up in one of the empty houses. My men can’t get to them.’

      ‘Injuries?’ Nick asked.

      The captain nodded. ‘At least one down. That’s all I know.’

      Nick risked another glance over the wall. Beneath him, about fifty metres away, was the deserted village the soldiers had been searching.

      Nick picked up his bag and headed for the wall.

      ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Captain Forsythe snapped.

      Nick barely glanced at him. ‘There’s a man out there. If he’s not dead, he’s badly injured. I’m a doctor—and a soldier. Where the hell do you think I’m going?’

      * * *

      Nick, accompanied by several of the soldiers, zigzagged his way towards the house and the wounded soldier.

      He had his own rifle slung over his shoulder. As part of the platoon he was obliged to carry a weapon but was only required to use it in self-defence. Whether he would was not a question he chose to ask himself.

      As bullets spat into the ground he concentrated on one thing and one thing only: getting to the injured man, hopefully in one piece.

      He leapt over a low wall and into the deserted house, conscious of two of the men from his own company following close behind him while the remainder of the soldiers continued to lay down covering fire.

      The casualty was an American. Not that it mattered. His job was to treat the injured regardless of nationality, and that included the enemy.

      The soldier was conscious but bleeding from a nasty wound to his shoulder. As Nick set about putting up a drip he asked one of the soldiers to call for a medevac.

      ‘You’ll be lucky, sir,’ Private Johnston muttered. ‘Don’t know how the ’copter can land with all this going on.’

      ‘Just let them know we’re going to need them whenever they can make it, Private, ‘ Nick said. ‘Hold onto the drip for me while I dress his wound.’

      A shadow fell across the door as another American appeared at the doorway.

      ‘Have you got Brad?’ he demanded. ‘Is he all right?’

      ‘For God’s sake, get down!’ Nick yelled. Was the American crazy?

      Just then there was an explosion that robbed Nick of his breath. He was flung backwards as debris rained through the narrow doorway.

      It took him a few moments to catch his breath. He was lying on his back with something heavy on top of him. He spat dust from his mouth.

      ‘Johnston!’

      ‘Over here, sir. I’m all right.’

      ‘Our patient?’

      ‘He’s okay too. But don’t think I can say the same about the other one.’

      Nick became aware that the weight pinning him down was the young American who only seconds before had been standing at the door. His body had probably shielded him and the others.

      ‘Help me here, Johnston.’ Gently he rolled the soldier from on top of him, feeling the sticky wetness of blood. Poor sod hadn’t stood a chance.

      But as he sat up he became aware that the soldier was conscious.

      ‘My leg,’ he groaned.

      Smoke clouded their small shelter and Nick used a torch to examine the young American. Blood was spurting from his groin, soaking into the dirt floor.

      ‘What’s your name, soldier?’ he asked.

      ‘Luke.’

      ‘Okay, Luke. Stay still while I have a look at your leg.’

      But the blood pumping from Luke’s groin told Nick everything he needed to know. Shrapnel had pierced his femoral artery and the boy—because that was all he was—was bleeding to death in front of him. His pulse was thready and his skin had taken on the damp sheen of shock.

      ‘Is it bad?’ the wounded soldier asked.

      The lad needed to be in hospital. He probably had twenty minutes at the most.

      Not long enough, then.

      Damn it.

      Another explosion rent the air and it sounded as if the gunfire was getting closer.

      ‘We need to get the hell out of here,’ Johnston said.

      Nick jammed his fist into the hole in the young soldier’s leg. ‘He can’t be moved.’

      ‘Go!’ Luke’s voice was faint. ‘You gotta leave me. I’m not going to make it.’ Every word was coming with increasing difficulty.

      He would almost certainly bleed to death before they got him back to the sangar and Nick couldn’t leave him here on his own—even if he knew there was almost no chance of saving his life. Nick made up his mind.

      ‘Johnston, get two men to take the other man back to the sangar. Tell them to let Captain Forsythe know I need the medevac. Now!’

      ‘I’ll stay with you.’

      ‘No. Get the hell out of here. This man and I will be fine.’

      ‘But, sir!’

      Nick cursed. ‘That’s an order, Johnston.’

      The soldier hesitated. ‘I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.’

      As Nick turned his attention again to the wounded American he was only dimly aware of Johnston and another soldier taking Brad, the other casualty, from the room.

      ‘Get out of here,’ Luke murmured. ‘Save yourself. I don’t want someone to die because of me.’

      ‘I’m not going anywhere, son.’ Nick cut the soldier’s combat trousers away, struggling to see the wound for the blood. He did the same with his jacket and shirt. He needed to make sure Luke wasn’t bleeding anywhere else. Look beyond the obvious was the mantra for an A and E surgeon. It was the ignored and uninvestigated that often killed.

      As he worked he noted that Luke had an eagle tattooed on his right biceps. That wasn’t unusual—for a soldier not to have a tattoo would have been noteworthy—but the soldier also had a scar that ran diagonally across his chest. This was no aftermath of surgery.

      However, Nick had no time to wonder about past wounds. He inserted the venflon into a vein and, mercifully, Luke lost consciousness. Now he could get fluids into him, but he had to stop the bleeding. It was the only way to save the boy’s life. Pressure wouldn’t be enough. He would have to find the artery and clamp it—a procedure that was tricky enough in the luxury of a fully equipped theatre and with the help of experienced staff. But here? Almost no chance.

      Nevertheless, he had to try. Even if he managed to stop him from bleeding to death, it was likely that Luke would lose his leg. But better a limb than his life.

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