Terror
Something alerted him. He'd been touched and moved. No, not again. I can't. I have nothing. No. He could not summon the energy or will to wake, so he sank back.
A sting. The needle pierced his arm. The pain roused the man, not to consciousness, but to something more basic, a primitive urge to flee, to protect. He tried to pull away from the burning feeling as the fluid began to flow into him, but his arm was trapped. Must escape.
"Steady, guy. It's okay. Just plasma."
His eyes started open. There was no comprehension there, just alarm. He thrashed on the cot, throwing his body side to side, turning and twisting, kicking out, his free arm flailing, hand searching.
"Steady, man! Steady!" Arndt tried to sooth, but he could not be soothed. He must be caught in a dream of some kind, Arndt thought. Those eyes aren't seeing anything.
The medic hadn't anticipated such a drastic response from the soldier. "Hey, Dupree," he said to one of the orderlies, "come hold his arm down so he doesn't hurt himself." Dupree pulled up the chair and firmly held the arm.
The trapped arm anchored him. The soldier grew more agitated. His free hand found the covers. He grabbed them, pulled them up over his head, then flung them aside, only to search for them again. He rolled from side to side, trying to pull free. His good leg twitched and jerked. His breathing accelerated. He gasped and made nearly inaudible cries as he fought.
Arndt tried, in German, softly, "Still. Hush." "Shush, ist okay Kumpel." Much the same words that were English, just a slightly different pronunciation. And by now, "Okay" was a universal word.
"Hey, buddy, calm down, don't move, you're only hurting yourself. Hush, now. Hush." Dupree spoke to him quietly, trying to soothe him. "It will be okay. Be still now."
It was not going to be okay. The man continued to move about aimlessly, violently. Various moans and sounds accompanied the movements. His free arm was batting the air, hitting anything that came into range, fingers balled into a weak fist. Then he spread the fingers as wide as they would go and covered as much of his body as he could with that hand. But only briefly, because he again made a fist and swung. Bat, cover, bat, cover, repetitively, the movements growing weaker as he tired. His eyelids closed but his eyes kept moving, watching whatever dream was playing in this nightmare. He balled the fingers up into a fist on his other hand, the one that was trapped, and vainly attempted to strike a blow.
He'd stop moving for a few seconds, then start back up. He was completely unaware of his wounds, of any damage he might be causing whenever he rolled onto them, kicked them, or tugged on them. He strove to sit up, but someone kept pushing him down. Tossing and turning, he fought with the covers, with the pillow, with the men around him, with whatever was dragging on his arm.
Arndt and Dupree had their hands full. Another orderly, noticing the commotion, came over to assist. Occasionally, they'd get a soldier like this, caught up in some internal terror and fighting to escape.
With the three of them working to control the soldier, they began to make headway. He might have been strong but had little reserve left. The men made shushing noises, spoke soft comforting words to the soldier, trying to calm him. English, German, nothing penetrated. Fatigue overtook him; he stopped thrashing but continued to weakly move against the hands that held him. Arndt caught a feeble fist and carefully uncurled the fingers, and whispered, "Hush. Okay. Hush."
The soldier shifted onto his side, curled in as if to protect his vitals, and threw his arm over his head, dragging the covers along. He continued to quietly mutter and burble, never forming words, just small little noises that would escape his lips. He shuddered a few times violently, then stilled. If it weren't for the sounds of rough breathing, it was as if he'd died.
"Okay, buddy. Okay. See, it's all better." Dupree patted the blanket-covered mound awkwardly.
"Hey, Doc," he softly said to Arndt. "Bad dreams?" "I think he's okay now. Poor guy."
The medic replied, "Maybe. Fever. It's high. I think he's really confused, too. Probably a concussion. I wonder if something bad didn't happen to him recently and he's reliving it."
The orderly and Arndt managed to get both bottles of plasma into the man without a repetition of the struggle. Arndt said, "We'll get him a bit more comfortable and clean him up. Maybe cool him down a little. I'm sure that bout did nothing to help him. He's asleep now and it should be easier. We need to get the rest of his things off. But let's be careful. We don't want a repeat."
They worked, gently trying to untangle cover and soldier. He kept turning and folding inward, defending his core, and pressing his face into the cot, shielding it. They finally got the sheet and blanket free and took them off the cot. They needed to get him ready for the move.
"As hurt and sick as he is," the orderly commented. "I swear he's still fighting me." Dupree sponged down the man's face, neck, and upper body, trying to cool him down while cleaning off some grime. There was no overt resistance on the soldier's part, but he continued to move restlessly, guarding himself.
The soldier was aware now. He could feel hands moving his body around, touching him, rearranging him. He could offer no fight; he could not command any strength. Monsieur Robertson had made sure of that. The treatment he received at Robertson's hands had not killed him but came close. All he could do was make himself as small and tight as possible, present less of a target. Every time an arm was moved, or he was straightened out in the cot, he curled back into that protective posture. What are they doing to me? Taking me back into that room? No! He mustered all his strength for a mighty kick and struck.
A startled "Ow!" from the medic. Arndt, who'd started to take off the remaining boot, received that kick, but it had no more power behind it than the playful arm punches he and his little brother exchanged when they were children. "Watch that foot, buddy." If he hadn't heard a, a growl? with that kick, it would have been laughable. "Okay, Feldwebel. Ich denke, ich lasse diesen Boot einfach an. Später." Instead, Arndt tackled the tattered pants and cut them away. Now all that was left on the soldier were the solitary boot and bloodied undershorts.
Dupree looked at Arndt in some surprise. Arndt just pointed at the feldwebel's jacket, barely visible under a pile of discarded parts of the man's mismatched uniform. Then he added the other pant leg to the pile. Oh? A Kraut? A freshly minted orderly, Dupree had never seen one of them up close like this. But, he looks American. Why didn't they have an MP watching him? And he didn't know Arndt spoke German. Hmmm. Curious, Dupree decided he wanted to stick around and help with whatever that prickly old doc was going to do with this guy. He wanted to ask Arndt more questions, but later. That Dr. Zimmermann was headed their way, full bore. It was time to move the soldier.