Stall
Nothing more than a little pebble, tossed and worn from his travails. And fetched up here, in an aid station in France somewhere behind somebody's front lines. Where he lay on a table fevered and naked, as hurt as he could remember. Surrounded by strangers. Awaiting an uncertain future. At the mercy of a doctor that wouldn't shut up. Enough to make a man wish he was .
Can't he just get on with it?
The Soldier lay on the table, huddled under the sheet that offered only scant warmth. He shook from time to time as fever wracked his frame. He had escaped into memories, but the doctor's constant droning brought him to the present. When is this going to be over?
Major Zimmermann looked at the Soldier and could see he was on the verge. Zimmermann knew blood poisoning had set in; he could see it. The high fever and the toxins from infection were sapping his remaining strength. That and the determined subtle resistance that was constant with this man. The suppurating wound on his thigh looked bad. They'd hit it against the table while moving him and reopened part of the wound. The sooner he could tend it, the better the chance the Soldier had. Maybe relieve some pressure by lancing the larger abscesses. But first, splint that leg because it would have to be moved around to get better access to the different abscesses. If it's moved much more and it's really broken, then what was relatively simple could be made worse. Not that walking all that distance in the first place hadn't caused extra damage, but now, as a doctor he couldn't add to that man's list of hurts. It would take just a few minutes. Just a soft splint.
The doctor decided to speak directly to the Soldier. He knew the man understood English, still, "Arndt, translate into German for me. Everything I say, from now on. Just in case. But I think he understands English and is an American." "He is a puzzle, though. So obstinate."
Zimmermann could read, write, and speak German, but he wasn't as easy speaking it as Arndt. In the Great War, his family had hidden their German origins, so the neighbors wouldn't target them as sympathetic to the Kaiser or Germany. They only spoke German at home. After Zimmermann moved away to get his education, he didn't speak it much except when visiting home. As a result, he'd gotten rusty and wasn't as conversant in German as he had been in his younger years. That attitude still persisted in parts of the country, and was one reason Zimmermann had volunteered. So his mother, now an elderly widow, and his wife could put blue stars in their windows. A bit of protection for them. Enough. Back to the present.
The doctor touched the Soldier's shoulder to get his attention. Eyes opened. "Soldier, we need to splint your leg before we move on. It shouldn't hurt too much and it will protect you. I'm just going to move your ankle but I think it's okay. Let me know if it hurts." Arndt translated. The Soldier shrugged his response. He had no control over what they decided to do. He figured he would accept, without rebellion, any care that didn't require him to compromise. The doctor was pretty gentle manipulating his ankle. He addressed the soldier again. "Your ankle looks fine." That meant that the Soldier hadn't grimaced or hissed with his typical response to pain. "Normally, I'd wrap you all the way up past your knee, but I have to have it be able to bend, so we'll just go from here to here," touching a spot just under his knee.
Dried blood still trailed down the man's leg. They hadn't cleaned everything off. They'd have to do that first. Once again, Zimmermann could not resist taking advantage of the opportunity to give the new orderlies a lecture and some hands-on practice. It was a bit rough, especially the cleanup, even though the doctor supervised closely. Arndt gave the Soldier a description of what was happening in both German and English. With all the German they were talking to him, he was even more convinced that he was in Kraut hands. So confused. He closed his eyes; easier to tolerate all that was bombarding his senses and to maintain his composure that way. He thought that having his leg nicely wrapped in some soft stuff all the way down to his toes, would give him an advantage if he got a chance to escape. At least part of his leg was a little warmer, although with his fever, he couldn't determine if that was bad or good. Having them tend to his leg also gave him a chance to rest, to gather strength for what he suspected would be a very difficult time coming up. He'd run over the options in his mind and now knew he had no choice. He'd seen something unexpected and quite secretive on that mission. If he let them give him morphine and he talked, he'd more than likely be shot as a spy, especially as he'd come in with a mix of uniform and no identification.
All halfway good things must end, and this was no exception. Zimmermann noted that the Soldier seemed to be asleep rather than unconscious. He'd better wake him as he wanted no more aggressive or panicked responses on the man's part. Once more the Soldier felt the doctor's hand on his shoulder. It was so hard to open his eyes; he merely turned his head to acknowledge the touch.
Zimmermann decided that was about as much a response as he was going to get. He launched right in. "Soldier, this next part is going to be rough. I must take care of this wound now. It is bad, the wound by itself, but it has gone toxic, septic. You must have seen it when you were sat up. At least you know I don't exaggerate. Better to know." Arndt was a bit shocked to hear the doctor talk this way to a patient. They normally pussy-footed around serious injuries to avoid alarm. But Zimmermann wasn't a typical doctor, and this soldier was not a typical patient. "I will do what I can and be as careful as I can." He waited and listened as Arndt translated. Arndt was a bit more circumspect in his translation than Zimmermann had stated things. "More blunt." "Stumpf sein." Zimmermann reminded Arndt, in German. The two orderlies looked at each other in amazement. What, both the medic and the doc spoke German? This was getting more and more interesting.
The sheet once again did a disappearing act from his legs. The Soldier squirmed uncomfortably under the gaze of what felt like 10,000 eyes.
The thigh held Zimmermann's attention; the Soldier's attempts to cover himself were noted only as movements that were counter to what the doctor was trying to do. He ordered the young orderlies to hold the man still. They complied, firmly holding the Soldier in place. The gash, high up on his thigh, started nearly at the crease. Ugly summed it up. Oozing, deep, and proud. It looked hot. Red streaks radiated from it in several places along its length of more than six inches. Large lumps in the meat of his thigh indicated abscesses. The sides of the wound had not aligned well when it started to close, and it still gaped open in places. To fix this was beyond the capabilities available at the aid station. He needed an excellent surgeon to repair it, it was so deep. It would leave an ugly rough scar and that would need work as well. All he could do is treat the abscesses and clean what he could. That would be too painful without some anesthetic and all he had left was morphine. This wasn't the 19th Century where the doctor would get the patient so drunk that he could withstand some pain before passing out.
Fresh blood, thanks to some clumsy handling, continued to leak from the wound. "Arndt, clean that up. But let him know what you're doing." Zimmermann didn't trust the new orderlies to do a good job; they weren't all that careful or thorough. Anyway they were keeping the Soldier from moving around, from evading the exam. "I'm sure that's an abscess I see there," lightly touching a swollen area. The lack of reaction surprised Zimmermann. He was used to a response. "There's at least one or two more." "It looks like something was dragged along there. Not just a simple slice or stab." He hovered a finger over the gash and traced down the length of the wound, this time not touching. "It's best to lance them now, rather than wait. That's what I'll do."
The Soldier had chosen to temper his movements. Just dealing with that additional cleanup work, Arndt? yeah, that German, Arndt, did, had more than set his teeth on edge, even if it had been done with care. He'd compartmentalized the doctor's rather casual treatment of his person into a corner of his mind. The Soldier decided that, for the doctor, it was nothing personal; he probably treated every person, German and American, the same cavalier, detached way. He wasn't going to spend what little energy he had left reacting to this annoying doctor unless he got too personal.
Again, Zimmermann addressed the Soldier. "We don't have any local anesthetic left. Sorry. It's morphine or nothing." Arndt translated. No reaction besides a head shake from the man. The doctor decided to get a bit more graphic. "Without, we'll have to hold you down. You won't be able to hold still. I will have to cut into muscle to reach a couple of these. It will feel as though I am stabbing, slicing you. It will be very painful, even though the lancet and my scalpels are extremely sharp." The doctor illustrated by touching some of the worst abscesses and pressing down just with a fingertip. The Soldier flinched at the feel. "Some of the abscesses are in rather awkward places. Towards the inside of your thigh. And rather high up. It will be uncomfortable for you as I will have to move your legs to reach them better." For once, Zimmermann was somewhat delicate in his phrasing. "Like this." He moved the soldier's bad leg to the position that would be the easiest to access those abscesses, crooking the knee outward to expose more of the inner thigh. He motioned the orderly to move the other leg further out on the table, so there was more room to work. He wanted the man to agree to let him use morphine. Vivid, plain language and a demonstration. Hoped that would make an impression on the Soldier.
This unwanted maneuvering of his body rekindled the fire in the Soldier. They had crossed his line. As soon as the doctor removed his hand, the Soldier moved his bad leg back to its former position. He attempted with little success to fight the orderly's pull on his other leg. If anything, that ass moved it further out, to the point that the table no longer supported most of that leg. The Soldier tried to sit up to deal with that idiot, but firm hands kept him pinned to the table. At least those men were concerned with his welfare, as one of the orderlies kept repeating very quietly, "Hush. It's okay. Hush."
The silent duel between the Doctor and the Soldier continued, thought Arndt. It looked like that other orderly had decided to get a little heavy on moving the Soldier's leg out, almost as if he were trying to hurt the man. No need for that. Arndt made to move down to take over from the orderly, but Dr. Z. had started talking again to the Soldier and he needed to stay at the head of the table.
The doctor was a bit squeamish about proceeding. He'd talked tough, hoping the Soldier would take the easy way out, but so far, no response. Once more, Zimmermann shook the Soldier's shoulder while he repeated the question about morphine. The Soldier waited until the medic finished with the translation. He could not bring himself to talk or to accept the morphine. He knew, without a doubt, that mission had revealed a secret the Krauts needed to keep from the Allies. He had no choice; he could not accept the succor the doctor offered. The Soldier shook his head, slowly, deliberately, but said absolutely nothing, then closed his eyes.
Well, crap! That tears it, thought Zimmermann. He'd more or less painted himself into a corner. His pride would not let him back down, especially in front of the new orderlies. Unless. There was another way. The doctor decided he would just wait out the Soldier, then give him the morphine once he went unconscious, regardless. He could stall. He motioned the orderly to relax his hold and join the others looking down at the thigh. He'd let the Soldier relax for now. Zimmermann launched into a little lecture about blood poisoning and what to expect in the upcoming procedure. The new orderlies probably hadn't seen either of these things yet, if they'd only spent time at a forward aid station. Because most of their patients were in and out in less than 24 hours. It took a bit of time for both conditions to develop. Again, the Soldier was a perfect subject. As the doctor lectured, the group around the table bent forward to look at his wound. As if it was the most interesting thing in the universe.
The Soldier was not enjoying this one little bit. He didn't like being the subject of so much scrutiny. He wished for that earlier enervated feeling, when he had no energy to waste on anything but surviving. He detached himself from the Soldier again, mind going where the body could not, back to the mission.
A/N. German immigrants and those whose names "looked German" were subject to harassment and violence during both World Wars. My grandfather's family experienced this in the Great War, as did my father in World War II. They both volunteered and served on the front lines in their respective wars. German was their first language, BTW.