And Would Suffice
Three sodding years in camp, and the Krauts just had to pick today to learn how to aim a rifle, didn't they?
It wasn't likely a fatal wound, barring even more bad luck than they'd already had, (and should therefore have already fulfilled their disaster quota for the day, assuming Someone kept track of such things,) but not being fatal didn't mean anything even close to 'doesn't hurt like absolute hell.' And the fact that he was going to have to hide said absolute hell from everyone in a German uniform for the next however many weeks it took to heal up just put the shiny tin cupola on it.
In short, Newkirk was not having the greatest day imaginable.
"I'm going to wash the wound first," Wilson told him, with what shreds of a bedside manner he possessed. The medic was new in camp, and while he was an immeasurable step up from the nothing they'd had, avuncular and reassuring he was not. "It looks like a pretty clean graze; I don't think you're carrying around any bullets. But I'll know more once all that blood is out of the way."
"Fine," Newkirk bit out. He was not going to cry out, he told himself stubbornly. He was not going to so much as grunt. He was going to get through this like the little Spartan boy, the one who stoically let his pet fox chew on his vitals for reasons that probably made sense in ancient Greek, even if it sounded positively barmy in modern English and why in hell was he thinking about that, anyway?
Wilson picked up a bucket of icy water. Literally icy—the outside of the bucket was fuzzed with rime. "The cold should help the pain a little," he explained. "Low-tech, but we're short on painkillers, and you'll probably want them later, after the adrenaline's worn off."
He didn't want to hear about it. "Whatever you think best," he said, through gritted teeth, and looked away.
Wilson raised an eyebrow and began gently cleaning the wound. "How obliging of you. You know, going by your reputation, you're not exactly the sort of patient I'd expected."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"I'll live," said Wilson, assiduously sponging away the blood. The cold water did feel soothing, not that Newkirk planned to admit it. "And so will you, if you were wondering. You'll have a nice scar for the ladies to coo over, though."
"Around here?"
"Well, after the war. It has to end sometime."
"Optimist."
"Guilty as charged," said Wilson. "Huh."
"What's 'huh' supposed to mean?"
"Means this is a bit deeper than I'd thought," said the medic, no wry humor in his voice now. "I think it's going to need to be cauterized. Sorry."
Cautery. Well, wasn't that just splendid. "Do what you have to," Newkirk said, his own voice somewhere between frustration and martyrdom.
"Hold this compress in place while I get things ready," said Wilson, and guided Newkirk's hand to press the cold rag in precisely the right spot. With morbid curiosity, Newkirk watched the man start a fire in the stove and position the poker directly in the middle of the flame.
Of all the ways he'd pictured spending the afternoon, having a wound branded shut was getting towards the bottom of the list. His imagination obediently leapt into overdrive, sketching out the white-hot metal searing its way into his flesh; how much it would hurt, and for how long. For a moment, he thought he could already smell the burned-meat-and-singed-hair odor that would fill the room when Wilson pressed the poker to the wound…
He'd caught his forearm against the edge of the stove, once, when he'd been careless and rushed through getting dinner. Once had been enough to teach him some caution. Hurt like the dickens, it did, and he still had the scar, a thin, slightly shiny spot three inches above his watchband, except this was going to be so much bigger, so much worse…
"I'll just leave that to heat," Wilson said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Let me see that."
Newkirk relinquished his hold on the wet compress and let the medic look. Silent, stoic, stubborn, Spartan, and any other words beginning with S that he'd forgotten, he stared off into the middle distance. He would not scream. That began with S, too.
Wilson dipped the rag back into the bucket, came up with a chunk of ice. "This'll numb it a bit beforehand," he offered, almost apologetically.
Newkirk nodded, once, as Wilson pressed the ice to his shoulder. It was so cold it burned, but the numbness followed obediently in its wake, and he was grateful for small favors.
Not quite numb enough, though. Not enough to mask a quick pinprick as Wilson's needle pierced the flesh, once, twice, and a third time as he sewed the wound shut.
"All done," Wilson said, wiping his hands on the now-superfluous rag. "Stove's probably hot by now; shall I make some coffee?"
"What in hell are you playing at?" he snapped, stoicism forgotten.
"We call them 'sutures' back where I'm from," Wilson said cheerfully, tying off his thread.
"I know what sutures are," said Newkirk, fuming. Metaphorically, anyway. "Why didn't you say that was what you were going to do?"
"Seemed easier. If you were busy dreading the hot metal, it meant you weren't going to tense up and be difficult about a few stitches," said Wilson, taping a bandage into place.
"Who said I was going to be difficult at all?"
"Aside from everyone?" Wilson patted his good shoulder. "Cheer up. Just think how much worse it could have been."
Fire or ice. It wasn't a hard choice. And the misdirection was, in a word, masterful.
Damned if he'd admit that, of course.
"You'll fit in well around here," was all Newkirk said.
"…Why do I suspect that isn't a compliment?"
"Likely because it's not."
"I'll take it anyway."