Appraisal
Zimmermann liked to get a mental impression of the entire body, person, before he focused in on any particular area. Since they weren't rushed, he could take his time. He scanned the soldier's face. Fever made two patches of hectic red on his cheeks. Pale, sun-bleached lashes were barely visible on the bluish skin under his eyes. Probably a week's worth of stubble on his face. It partially hid a hand-shaped bruise along his jaw. He would grow a good full beard, so no young kid, still in his teens. A streak of dried blood crossed an ear and crusts of blood still matted his hair around a long cut. Dirt and grime splattered his face. Scuffs, scrapes, and bruises testified to some recent rough times.
He pulled back the covers and studied the whole man. Fairly tall, if he were stretched out to his full length but rolled in like he was, hard to say. Sturdy, muscular build. Probably an infantryman, those muscles were well-defined, even as bruised and abused as they looked right now.. But worn to the bone, ribs starting to show more than they normally would. Heat radiated off him, though he could see waves of shivers shake his body. The bare-chested soldier curled tighter into himself. The motion better exposed a cluster of bruises down one side. Zimmermann could see scars from old wounds. The man had been lucky, more than once. He'd need that good luck again, Zimmermann thought.
He caught a glimpse of an abrasion, a burn? on a wrist while he was doing a skin test for dehydration. Matching marks on the other wrist. Faint bruises encircled both. An adventure story that Zimmermann had read as a boy suddenly came to mind. A captive? He had to check. He pushed up the pant leg on the boot-free limb. A circlet of bruises on his lower leg. He carefully rolled the soldier onto his back. More scars, one fairly new. The man had definitely seen more than his fair share of pain. A thin, surgically precise cut vertically bisected the man's torso. A few additional bruises on ribs. Several deep ragged cuts ran transversely over his lower abdomen and belly. Zimmermann filed all these marks away in his mind. He carefully moved the covering over the man's shoulder. That arm and shoulder wound. Looked like a penetrating wound and maybe another insult, delivered at close range. He replaced the cloth and moved on to look at the man's lower body.
The loose cloth that Arndt placed over the rip in the man's thigh had fallen away with the soldier's movements. Zimmermann sat in the chair to look at the wound. Not a typical clean cut, not that any battlefield cut was clean. The doctor just knew, knew it as if the soldier had told it; it was a someone, not a something that caused that injury. This one looked malevolent as if whatever caused it was wielded by someone who enjoyed hurting. He pushed aside the torn and bloodied underwear to study the streaks of red that were radiating up towards the man's heart. He felt nearby lymph nodes. Swollen. Hard. He gently touched the man's thigh where it was swollen around the wound. Some abscesses had formed already. The soldier reacted to those touches with mumblings and a movement of his leg away from the doctor. Down the same leg, it was bruised and swollen, from infection or from something else, he couldn't tell. He wished that boot was off. Well, it was coming off soon enough.
The long straight cut right down his center line. Too precise to be an accident. The wound on his leg. Close up injuries. Add those bruises on his extremities. His overall condition. He knew this soldier had been someone's captive. Not just an escaped prisoner of war. And he'd suffered.
Zimmermann stood back up and turned to Arndt and said, "So, more than just battlefield wounds." A nod from Arndt. "Get a unit of plasma in him before we do anything else. If we have it, two. He needs it, badly. He's lost a lot of blood so see what his dog tags say. Round up a few donors if we don't have any of his type left." Even the Germans listed blood type on their ID tags. He figured Arndt took off the soldier's tags and given them to an orderly so they could start a record of treatment on the man. "Then, get him ready for a move," pointing towards the little screened-off area where minor surgery was performed. "We can't do much here, but we can clean those wounds up and lance some of those abscesses. We still have a bit of morphine?" A nod, and Arndt held up two fingers. Not very much. Hopefully no one would be coming in that needed it more. "We'll need it for that part, but hold off until then." Another nod. "We'll wrap some ribs; I'm sure there's at least a couple cracked or broken, and maybe put a soft splint on that leg, even if it's not broken, I'm sure it won't hurt."
The scraps of uniform that remained, filthy with dried blood, mud, and stains. All that would have to go. He'd not be needing one for a few days at least. From the looks of him, he wasn't going anywhere but a hospital for at least a week. "There's hardly anything left of his uniform, and what's there, is bloody and filthy, ruined, get it all off." "He doesn't need any more dirt falling into those injuries. Manure for sure, who knows what else." Frankly, it looked like the man had wallowed in more than a few mud puddles. Which was true, but not on purpose. "That boot too." He was a bit surprised that the boot was still on. That wasn't like Arndt. He didn't like dirty boots on sheets. There must be another reason it was still on. "Then get him cleaned up as best you can. If those wounds weren't so raw, I'd like them cleaned with alcohol. I don't think we have any peroxide left." The medic cringed at the thought. That would be excruciating, at least on that leg. "Yes, I know. Too painful, but," the doctor's voice trailed off. Zimmermann could practically see those microbes invading the soldier. They already had, that was evident, but he didn't need more. "Maybe if you dilute it with sterile water." Arndt cringed again. Even at 70% strength it would still burn and sting like the devil. "I need to finish some paperwork and requisition some new supplies since the ones we were expecting never came in. I hear the truck was ambushed by some Frenchies. That should give you time." He made to walk off, but Arndt stopped him.
"No tags."
"No tags?"
"No, sir."
"I see. Well, send someone over to a CP and see if anyone's been reported missing that might match him. I am of the opinion he's one of ours. The skivvies are GI." "Get him ready."
He left Arndt to take care of the patient.
The medic looked down at the soldier, then covered him again. Soon enough it would be time to get him ready, but for a few more minutes while they got some plasma in him, he could rest undisturbed.