Page 6 of For This We Are Soldiers
“Heavens,” Ozzie said so calmly. “All we need is a bureau drawer and some toweling.” She turned to Colm. “Or should we put this little one close to the kitchen range, Suh?”
“My thought precisely,” Colm said, happy he had been so wise to summon Ozzie.
While Ozzie laid a fire in the wood stove and pulled up a chair padded with a quilt, Colm cleaned the infant. “We’ll keep her warm by the fire for a few days,” he explained. “She’s a wee one and could use a boost. Happily, ’tis summer. And what will you name her?”
Soon Eugenia Victoria—so much of a name for one so small—had gathered herself into a compact bundle and slept, warm, before the open oven door. When all was calm at the lieutenant’s, and Sergeant Flaherty’s wife was in firm control there, Colm thanked Ozzie. With a nod, she started back to the Chambers’ quarters. He stood a moment looking at her, a smile on his face.
That night, he managed forty-five minutes of sleep before the bugler sounded sick call. Luckily there was only a bilious stomach and a hacking cough to deal with before the next emergency, an ankle avulsion caused when a soldier-turned-carpenter (the army hated to pay for experts when privates existed) fell off a partly shingled stable roof.
His comrades carried the private to the hospital on a stretcher as he moaned and clutched the offending ankle. The private timed his arrival with the appearance of a baker’s assistant who had spilled hot grease on his forearm. Colm sighed and wrote another note, sent with one of the stretcher men. By the time Ozzie arrived, the owner of the avulsed ankle was certain that amputation lay in his immediate future, and the baker’s assistant had fainted when Colm touched his arm.
Sensible Ozzie. “Where do you need me the most, Suh?” The sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement, but she looked serious enough to satisfy the patients.
Without thinking, Colm put his hand on her shoulder. “The ankle thinks he’s facing amputation at his hip and sure death. Calm him down while I take care of the burn.”
She went to her duty while Colm made no attempt to revive the burn. Better to clean and prod while the man was in a far better place.
Burns in the second degree, he thought as he went to work. Out of the corner of his eye, Colm watched Ozzie remove the avulsed ankle’s shoes. She wiped the man’s face with a damp cloth, all the while keeping up a soothing conversation. Soon he was silent, caught in Ozzie’s web. What a gift.
When the burn was resting with a cold compress on his arm, Colm pulled up a stool and sat by Ozzie’s patient, whose eyes filled with terror again.
“By the Merciful, steward! Don’t take off my leg!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Colm said. “But I’m going to poke a bit. The pretty lady will hold your hand.”
The pretty lady did so, freeing Colm to let his experienced fingers roam around a rapidly swelling ankle. “Wiggle your toes,” he commanded, and the private wiggled.This little piggy, Colm thought. “Once more.”
The private looked at him expectantly, but when Colm just sat there, the dread returned.
“Not a break in sight, private,” he announced, putting the man out of some of his misery. “There’s an avulsion, though, which means a little piece of bone has been tugged away by the ligament. We’ll treat it with RICE.”
The soldier stared at him. “Rice?”
“Aye, lad.” Colm ticked off four fingers on his hand. “R-I-C-E: rest, ice, compression, and elevation. And no more roofs, d’ye hear? I’ll send a note to the sergeant.”
“Yes, sir!” The private closed his eyes with relief, certain he had stared down death.
After the man was resting, iced, compressed, and elevated, Colm promenaded from the ward to the entrance with the woman who had come to his aid twice today. He walked as slowly as he could, although he knew Ozzie had other duties. He was too shy to ask her to return later if she could, but he needn’t have bothered.
“I’ll be back this evening to sit with your patients,” she said. She peered closer; clearly more was on her mind.
“Go ahead,” he said, wishing she would reveal her undying love.
No luck. “Suh, do you think you should telegraph Fort Russell for some help? At the very least, where’s your hospital matron?”
“Home with lumbago,” he said and made a face. “As for telegraphing, I don’t think conditions here will get much worse.”
Things did get much worse a half hour later, after Mess Call. As the hospital matron had hauled her bones up the hill to prepare lunch, the bugler sounded sick call, something that never happened at one o’clock in the afternoon.
Captain Dilworth had left his medical bag in his office. Colm grabbed it and was out the door in seconds. He ran down the hill toward a crowd gathered by the post traders’ complex.
From its off-colored front wheels, he recognized the ambulance as the vehicle that had left for Cheyenne only that morning, carrying mail and several officers bound for court-martial duty. Colm worked his way through the crowd to the sergeant on patrol, a usually genial Irishman like himself who looked anything but genial.
“Colm, dear boyo, we came across the Shy-Dead stagecoach just past the iron bridge, tipped on its side.” He gestured to a piece of canvas from which booted feet poked out. “Couldn’t do anything for the driver.” He pointed again, further inside the ambulance. “Here’s your real patient.”
Ever cautious, Colm raised the canvas. The driver’s neck was cocked at an odd angle, but Colm rested his fingers against it anyway. Nothing. He shook his head.
“Come, come, young man, I am yet alive!”
