The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [203]
The Americans made room, five men easing away from their fellow flyer, cautious, watching Hamishita’s every move. He looked at the faces, dirty, exhausted, scanned their limbs, saw no obvious damage beyond the rips and shreds to their clothes.
“I am a doctor. I am here to help.”
None of the Americans showed any acknowledgment, no sign of understanding him. He moved forward, close to the injured man, opened the bag, then looked closer, saw blood thick on his shirt, a rag tied across one shoulder. He slid his hand beneath it, felt the gash in the man’s flesh, his hand now in the wound, foamy and wet, the man not crying out. The Americans around him kept mostly quiet, one shouting something, a guard at the cell door shouting back. It was a ridiculous show, no communication at all, just the growls of injured animals, hatred and viciousness. But the Japanese guards had every advantage, and the Americans seemed to know they were powerless, had to trust this older man who claimed to be a doctor. At least, he thought, they will allow me to do my work.
He eased the bandage off the shoulder, and Hamishita frowned, the wound already festering. The smell rose up, spreading through the cavelike cell, mingling with the damp earth and filthy men. He took an instrument from his bag, scraped at the wound, the man still oblivious, no real consciousness. But the others reacted, some turning away from the gruesome sight, others watching his every move. No, I am not here to torture. If he can be cured, I will do my best. He probed the wound, saw fragments of bone, the slow pulse of an artery, opened now, the blood draining away through the man’s rag of a shirt. One of the others said something, the man’s tone more of desperation, a plea.
“It is not good. He has lost much blood. Too much.”
Hamishita knelt upright, wiped the blood from his hand, put one finger on the man’s eyelid, opened, saw the pupils wide and black, a small window through the man’s blue eyes into a brain that was almost gone. The injured man was completely calm, no reaction at all, the odor from his wound overpowering in the cramped space. For more than thirty years he had treated every type of injury, and now most of those were wounds, many of them more severe than this one. He had never been bothered by the blood, by the opening of a man’s flesh. But the smells had always affected him, the unavoidable stench of a man’s inevitable death by the decay of blood and flesh, by the swift work of bacteria and vermin moving too quickly to be stopped. He removed a small vial of alcohol from his bag, sprinkled it on his hands, wiped again, cleaned as much of the man’s debris from his skin as he could. He looked at the others, each one with the fear and the anger for what had happened to them. Hamishita would not think of that, had no hatred for these men, no matter their missions, no matter what destruction they might be responsible for. He had seen the pain of loss too many times, knew the look in the eyes, stricken with the blow of sadness, of the reality that a friend was dying. He tried to see who might be in charge, could tell nothing from their flight jackets, the uniforms looked the same, no insignia he recognized. One of the men seemed to feel the moment more deeply than the others, and the doctor caught his eye, slowly shook his head. Another man said something to him, a demand, hard words, and Hamishita ignored him, kept his eye on the man who was crying now, red eyes, fear, the man already missing his friend.
“I’m sorry. The infection is too pronounced. He has lost consciousness. I do not have the medicine that would save him. Even if he was