IN SHOCK
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bandage-roll underneath he screamed. I yelled at the driver to slow
down.
I took out a belly compress and placed it over the stump and
looped the strings around the upper calf.
He screeched, "My balls!"
I cut away the pants and looked at his balls. Darts of powder
peppered the sac and the surrounding flesh.
I told him, "You're alright."
They were waiting for us at the post hospital with a stretcher
on wheels. Four orderlies carried him from the ambulance. A white
smocked doctor lifted the belly compress as they wheeled him toward
emergency.
"I gave him morphine," I called after them. "An eighth of a
grain." They were already inside when I remembered that I had
forgotten to fill out the tag. Describe the wound, its treatment, give
your name, rank, serial number and medical organization.
The ambulance driver said, "You did great."
We returned to the rifle range but the day was finished.
They had heard back at battalion. The lieutenant who tied the
tourniquet had called to praise me.
Our CO, a southern doctor, slapped my back. "Nice going,
boy."
Kish wanted to know what happened to the foot.
It was all so dreamy. I'd made him scream in the ambulance. The
belly compress hadn't been neatly tied. I looped the free strings over
his leg and fumbled with the knot. A lousy job. And yet they were
awed by my audacity. I had looked at the stump and wasn't altered
by the sight.
"I'm ready," I told Joe Witty after retreat.
He invited me to the PX for a beer. "I understand you did a
great job out there." He was boyish and charming. "I hear the leg
was off. Entirely off. That takes a lot of guts, Artie. Nice going,
buddy." He tapped my arm with his fist.
"We were going to fight."
"Listen," he said, his Irish face ruddy with sincerity, "lowe you
an apology." His hand reached for mine and before I could prevent
it, my hand engaged his.
I had a bloody field jacket. That was good enough credentials
for Joe Witty. I was a bona fide medic, a soldier. What had been
