Chapter 2 Damages
Once the privates left, the corporal removed the torn, bloodied, and damp jacket that one of them had so carefully laid over the soldier. That, he placed in a nearby chair. "You won't be needing it for a while, Feldwebel. If that is who you are. It's beat up pretty good. Like you. And I'm not even sure it's yours. It seems big for you," he said to the battered figure. Arndt took a few things, scissors, fresh bandages, and some alcohol from a nearby station stocked with a few basic care items and came back to give the soldier a quick going-over.
"Let's see what we got here," he said to the soldier. Arndt swept his eyes over the soldier. His clothes were so ripped and bloodied, they wouldn't be salvageable, so those would just be cut off. It was faster and less painful for the wearer anyway. They'd search the pockets later; there might be a clue as to the man's identity. Bandaged head, torn and muddied long-sleeved shirt with a bandage visible through tears in the shoulder and arm, and bloody pants with a large rip in one leg. Another bandage could be seen through a slit in the pant leg. Pale as a ghost. Whatever had caused all that bleeding in his leg would probably need the doctor to fix, but some of this other, the medic could deal with. He had a bad fever. 104° if the thermometer was telling the truth. His pulse was fast and weak.
Arndt started at the top, snipping off bandages and clothes as he went. A scalp wound about 4 inches long ran along the side of his head, fairly hidden in his hair. He had a large lump on the back of his head and Arndt knew from the touch that there was a contusion to match. The wound in his upper arm and shoulder had gone untended for a while; it had festered and was infected. No undershirt. Probably pretty bloody. Most likely, someone in the squad had just cut it off to tend to that shoulder. An assortment of fresh bruises, scrapes, and cuts marred the soldier's chest and abdomen. Several of the cuts looked badly inflamed, more than the medic thought they should be, and their edges were jagged, almost frayed. Some older scars marked the man as a veteran of more than one encounter with hot metal. Down low, beneath his ribs and mostly along one side, there were several large bruises, some with cuts. They looked deep. Those had to hurt; something had plowed into his side multiple times. A long straight cut right down the man's center line caught his attention. It ran from neck to below navel, almost as if someone had decided to split the man wide open but changed their mind. He grabbed a wrist again and looked more closely. Rope burns? Bruises? The same marks were on the other wrist. To Arndt's mind, it began to look as if this man had been a captive and somehow escaped.
The hand jerked away, reclaimed by the soldier. Unfocused eyes wandered his way, then blinkered shut. The soldier rolled onto his less-injured side, wounded shoulder rotating forward to shelter his chest. He drew up his injured leg. An arm cradled ribs; the other drifted towards his injured thigh and rested near. Soft, wheezing breathing resumed. Arndt laid a hand on the man's back and shook him gently. No response. Must not have even seen him, Arndt thought. But the heat coming off the soldier's body registered with Arndt. He's really sick. And still shaking with those fever chills. Well, I'm almost done, buddy. Just have to look at your leg.
The pant leg had a large hole and a jagged tear in it. Blood saturated the material there. Plenty of blood and mud smeared down the whole front. Arndt noted that whoever did battlefield repairs on this soldier slit the pant leg up from just below the knee to past the upper pocket. It must be really high on his leg then. A couple of bandages wrapped around his leg helped hold the slit closed for the long walk back. Those, the medic cut away. He finished cutting the slit someone else had begun slicing all the way and the pants fell open. A few more snips, a tug, and now the soldier was wearing only one leg of his pants. Is that just a pant? Arndt couldn't help but think back to that little conundrum that always puzzled him as a boy. If a pair of pants had two legs, would only one leg make a pant? English could be very confusing. Like one of the soldiers who'd brought this man in, Arndt spoke German. Like a native, because he was.
The soldier moved his arm to ward him off, but as if it were too much effort, the arm went slack and fell back. Arndt looked at his face. Eyes still closed. Back to the leg. No fresh blood stained the bandage. Below the bandage and down, he figured to the ankle at least, the man's leg was a riot of color. Every color a bruise could have, was there. All that bruising; it would be very painful. No bones poking through the skin. If it were broken, probably from the looks of that bruising, it was likely the smaller of the two bones. Or perhaps it was an ankle or foot.* But still quite painful. He didn't want to take off that boot if the doctor decided to move the man into the minor surgery area. It could help shield a broken bone. Streaks of dried blood ran under the bandage as far as he could see down the leg. Off came the last bandage. That was a hell of a rip into the man's flesh. Red streaks radiated from several places along the gash. Now he knew why that sergeant wanted to get this man help as soon as possible. Blood poisoning had taken root. He looked at the tattered figure. You, soldier, better be as tough of a fighter as your scars suggest. The doctor would need to deal with that thing. The whole limb as a matter of fact.
The gash wasn't actively bleeding but it was leaking. He decided to place a clean wrapping over it until the doctor could look. He also draped one on the shoulder wound. Didn't need either of them to be picking up fuzz from a blanket or sheet. If the Feldwebel would just roll his body back, then he could get the rest of his uniform off. Until then, he could get the boot off his good leg without too much trouble. Then the soldier wouldn't kick himself with anything harder than his own foot. Very carefully, the medic eased the boot off. The sock was damp with sweat or water, made no difference; that couldn't be doing his foot any good. Off came the sock. A good airing would do wonders for that foot, the medic wryly observed. Almost as if the soldier knew he was finished, he scrunched even smaller in the cot, shivering and shaking with fever. Arndt thought he heard the words, "No. No," but when he looked at the soldier's face, he seemed still asleep or unconscious.
The medic walked over and grabbed a fresh sheet and a blanket from a storage cabinet. He shook out the sheet and floated it down over the soldier, then covered him with the blanket. He walked off to talk to the doctor and get supplies he knew they'd need.
*A/N: Trust me on walking quite a ways with a broken fibula, or foot for that matter. It can be done. At least two miles. And it hurts like the devil. I can testify to both. Separately.