Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [16]
Then at about four in the morning Wil Sloan came in gray-faced, carrying one end of a stretcher on which Charlie Gee lay. His skin was almost blue, eyes sunken in their sockets, and there was a great scarlet streaming wound in the pit of his belly where his genitals should have been. Wil had tried to pad it with all the bandages he could find, but everything was soaked through.
“Help him!” he cried out, his voice close to a scream. “Help him! Sweet Jesus, do something!”
The surgeon dropped the needle he was stitching with, and an orderly picked it up and carried on. Marie O’Day let out a moan of anguish and lurched forward to help the other bearer ease the stretcher onto the table.
“All right, soldier,” the surgeon said gently. “We’ll look after you. We’ll stop the worst of the pain, and stitch you up.” He barely looked at the young VAD nurse who had come down from the other operating table. “Get water, plenty of pads, instruments,” he told her.
She stepped closer and saw the wound, and in a hideous moment of realization understood it. Her face went paper-white and she staggered backward and crumpled to the floor.
Joseph saw the movement but he was too slow to save her.
Marie O’Day picked the girl up and dragged her to the corner, then went about collecting the things the surgeon had asked for.
Joseph knew Charlie had understood at least some part of the meaning of his blinding pain, and the wrenching panicky horror in other people’s faces. He tried to look at Joseph. His lips moved but he had not the strength to make any sound.
Joseph thought of the girl who wrote to him every day, and felt so sick he was afraid he might faint, just as the nurse had done. But Wil Sloan was standing almost beside him, his eyes bright with tears, gulping to find enough air to sustain him, desperate, pleading without words, praying.
What God would let this happen to a young man? He would be better dead. He will probably die anyway, from shock and loss of blood, or from infection, but couldn’t it have been without knowing what had happened to him?
Joseph put out his hand and grasped Charlie’s, holding on to it, feeling the fingers move a tiny fraction. “Hang on, Charlie,” he said hoarsely. “We’re with you.”
The surgeon was beginning to work already. The anesthetic mask was not there yet. Charlie was still conscious.
The wound was ghastly, still pumping blood, even though the first-aid station had done all they could.
Then Prentice was there, staring. “What’s happened to him?” he asked. “God in heaven! His genitals have gone! There’s nothing left!”
Charlie’s eyes filled with tears and there was a gurgle in his throat. Joseph felt his fingers curl, and then loose again as the surgeon at last put the anesthetic mask mercifully on his face.
Wil turned around and looked at Prentice. His skin was gray, his eyes wild and he gasped and gagged for breath. He teetered for a moment, as if trying to keep his balance, then he lunged forward, swinging his fists, and caught Prentice on the side of the jaw.
Prentice went staggering backward, but Wil followed him, lashing out again and again, left fist, then right, then left. Prentice crashed into the far wall, sending a tray of instruments flying off the small table. He put up his arms to shield his face, but it was useless. Wil was in a red rage and he went on striking him on any part of his body he could reach, head, shoulder, chest, stomach.
The surgeon swore. “For God’s sake, stop him! Somebody get hold of the bloody lunatic!”
Prentice fell over and slid down against the wall, half on top of the girl who had fainted. Wil grabbed his arms and yanked him up again, punching at him at the same time. Prentice gave a high-pitched scream as his shoulder dislocated with the twist of his own weight against the grip. Wil hit him again and he crumpled.
The orderly stood frozen. Marie looked around for something to hit Wil with, before he actually killed Prentice.
Joseph stepped forward, forcing the picture of Charlie Gee out of his mind. He stepped behind Wil and put