I read over 30 sources about the British Army, the Second Afghan War, the First Afghan War, shock/trauma, dehydration/heat-related illness, 1880s battlefield medicine, weaponry and just about anything else you could think of. And I was starting to think I had lost my mind, obsessing over things like uniform color and the precise location of the subclavian artery relative to the clavicle, when I know I'll never see a penny of monetary compensation for this story. So all the reviews about how realistic and detailed everything is . . . TOTALLY makes it worth it! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

JULY 28, 1880: VILLAGE OF HAUZ-I-MADAT, approximately 20 miles NE of Maiwand

1 a.m.

"Dr. Watson?"

The man on the pack horse stirred, struggling to focus his thoughts. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness the past seven hours. His shoulder still throbbed abominably and his left arm was useless. The back of his right ankle, at the Achilles tendon, burned dully too but he didn't recall receiving the second bullet wound. Mercifully, it had been a glancing wound with minor damage. Murray had staunched it quite professionally. The night air was always rather cold in Afghanistan, even in July, but he seemed to be unusually chilled. His mouth was painfully dry, with cracked lips and sluggish tongue. Watson was peripherally aware that he was suffering from a bad combination of dehydration, blood loss, and trauma and yet lethargy tugged him towards apathy.

Murray continued. "Sir, they've found water. Well, it's little better than a mud hole but it's wet and cool."

Watson clung to the concept of water. He swallowed with difficulty and strove to concentrate. "I lost my canteen."

"Don't worry about that." Murray passed up his own canteen, which sloshed tantalizingly. "You still have your medical supplies and pistol." He thought it best not to mention the doctor had lost his rifle as well.

Murray was right about the water. It was gritty and brackish, and both tasted and smelled of sulphur. However, it was water and the few mouthfuls of it were more than welcome.

"Thank you," Watson said as he handed back the canteen, still sloshing.

Murray waved off it and the thanks. "No, sir, that's all your ration. I drank at the well. We brought back as much water as we could for the men but none could be spared for the horses, poor brutes." He stroked the pack horse's nose with some affection and patted its lathered sides. "We're about halfway to Kandahar."

"Are they still firing at us?"

Watson did not have to clarify who "they" were. Villagers, who had no love for the European invaders, took every opportunity to shoot at the retreating figures. Jezails were still the weapons of choice but even rocks and sticks were put to use. British retaliation was out of the question as ammunition was at a premium. Moreover, the low mud walls of the Afghan villages were perfect cover for the snipers. Many soldiers in the retreat had been brought down in such a manner. Watson suspected it was such a sniper that had caused his second wound.

Murray sighed. "I'm afraid so. Keep your head down, sir, that's the best advice."

"The horse is a target, as am I," Watson realized aloud and was vaguely surprised and annoyed he hadn't grasped that before. He secured the canteen to the horse's bridle, as he had done with his kit and made to get off.

"I wouldn't dismount, sir," Murray responded, anticipating the direction of the train of thought. "Horses are more valuable than gold right now and we may as well put them to use. The villagers tend not to shoot at riders for fear of hitting the animals, which they would like to lay claim to." Out of respect, he did not add that if the doctor tried to walk the rest of the journey he could very well die of exhaustion before dawn.

Watson hesitated and Murray pressed his advantage. "Doctor, at least wait until we're closer to the Citadel."

The answer was a tired sigh. "Very well."

Sources:

http://en.