hopeless.
“Hold this,” he ordered, indicating the surgical clamp in his hand buried deep in the abdominal wound.
She took it and it slipped off the flesh, blood spurting up hot, catching her across the face. She had never been more ashamed of her inadequacy.
Cavan took the clamp from her and grasped the flesh again.
“Swab it,” he commanded.
She prayed under her breath and cursed herself. She tried to still her breathing, control her muscles. She must not be so stupid, so ineffectual. This was a man’s life she was holding. Her fingers steadied at last. She mopped up the blood, then threaded the needle and passed it to him.
He glanced upward and met her eyes. His look was warm for an instant, then he took the needle. She reached for the clamp.
The gunfire started again, louder and more rapid than before, volley after volley. It sounded as if it was just outside the tent flap. Cavan did not hesitate in his slow, steady work. “Keep swabbing,” he told her. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
A spray of bullets shredded the tent wall and the anesthetist collapsed silently, buckling to his knees, then sliding forward, his back scarlet. Through the ragged tear stepped a German soldier, rifle pointing at Cavan. Behind him were two more, their weapons pointing at Judith also.
“Stop!” the leader said clearly in almost unaccented English.
“If I do, he’ll bleed to death,” Cavan replied without looking up, his hands still working. “Swab, please, Miss Reavley.”
Imagining the bullets crashing into her, bringing instant white-hot death, Judith obeyed, soaking up the blood within the wound.
“Stop!” the German repeated, speaking to Cavan, not Judith.
“I have two more men to operate on,” Cavan replied. “Then we will withdraw.”
There was more rifle fire outside. Someone cried out. The German turned away.
Cavan went on stitching. He was almost finished. The bleeding was contained.
The German looked back. “Now you stop.”
The tent flap opened and one of the wounded men stood there. He was swaying slightly, blood streaming down his tunic where his left arm should be, a revolver in his right hand. He raised it and shot the first German soldier through the head. The other two fired at him at the same moment, hurling him back against the canvas. He was dead before he touched the tent wall, and slithered to the floor.
Cavan swung round and dived toward him, hands outstretched.
“It’s useless!” Judith shouted at him. One of the other soldiers raised his gun to aim at Cavan. She reached for the instrument tray, picked up a scalpel and drove it into the man’s neck. His bullet went through the ceiling.
Cavan was half on top of the dead soldier on the floor. He knew he could do nothing for him. It was his gun he was after. He rolled over, covered in blood, and shot the third soldier through the head.
The second one, gasping and spewing blood from his neck wound, staggered back through the tent the way he had come.
The gunfire outside never ceased.
“We have two more wounded we might save.” Cavan clambered to his feet, shaking, his face white.
“Only one now,” Judith corrected him. “Can…can we hold them off?”
“Of course we can,” he replied, his breath ragged, swaying a little. “But we’ve lost a scalpel.”
Joseph heard about it in the morning, standing in the wreckage of the forward trench, the parapet collapsed, mud up to their knees.
“It’s about the only good thing, Captain Reavley,” Barshey Gee said to him grimly as they stopped working on rebuilding the trench walls for a moment. “He’s some doc, eh, Cavan? There he was, cool as a cucumber, stitching away like there were nothing going on! An’ your sister with him. An’ that Yank ambulance driver, too.” Barshey was a tall man with thick hair. Before the war he had been slender; now he was gaunt and looked years older than twenty-four. “Got ’em out, they did. Didn’t leave a single live
“Hold this,” he ordered, indicating the surgical clamp in his hand buried deep in the abdominal wound.
She took it and it slipped off the flesh, blood spurting up hot, catching her across the face. She had never been more ashamed of her inadequacy.
Cavan took the clamp from her and grasped the flesh again.
“Swab it,” he commanded.
She prayed under her breath and cursed herself. She tried to still her breathing, control her muscles. She must not be so stupid, so ineffectual. This was a man’s life she was holding. Her fingers steadied at last. She mopped up the blood, then threaded the needle and passed it to him.
He glanced upward and met her eyes. His look was warm for an instant, then he took the needle. She reached for the clamp.
The gunfire started again, louder and more rapid than before, volley after volley. It sounded as if it was just outside the tent flap. Cavan did not hesitate in his slow, steady work. “Keep swabbing,” he told her. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
A spray of bullets shredded the tent wall and the anesthetist collapsed silently, buckling to his knees, then sliding forward, his back scarlet. Through the ragged tear stepped a German soldier, rifle pointing at Cavan. Behind him were two more, their weapons pointing at Judith also.
“Stop!” the leader said clearly in almost unaccented English.
“If I do, he’ll bleed to death,” Cavan replied without looking up, his hands still working. “Swab, please, Miss Reavley.”
Imagining the bullets crashing into her, bringing instant white-hot death, Judith obeyed, soaking up the blood within the wound.
“Stop!” the German repeated, speaking to Cavan, not Judith.
“I have two more men to operate on,” Cavan replied. “Then we will withdraw.”
There was more rifle fire outside. Someone cried out. The German turned away.
Cavan went on stitching. He was almost finished. The bleeding was contained.
The German looked back. “Now you stop.”
The tent flap opened and one of the wounded men stood there. He was swaying slightly, blood streaming down his tunic where his left arm should be, a revolver in his right hand. He raised it and shot the first German soldier through the head. The other two fired at him at the same moment, hurling him back against the canvas. He was dead before he touched the tent wall, and slithered to the floor.
Cavan swung round and dived toward him, hands outstretched.
“It’s useless!” Judith shouted at him. One of the other soldiers raised his gun to aim at Cavan. She reached for the instrument tray, picked up a scalpel and drove it into the man’s neck. His bullet went through the ceiling.
Cavan was half on top of the dead soldier on the floor. He knew he could do nothing for him. It was his gun he was after. He rolled over, covered in blood, and shot the third soldier through the head.
The second one, gasping and spewing blood from his neck wound, staggered back through the tent the way he had come.
The gunfire outside never ceased.
“We have two more wounded we might save.” Cavan clambered to his feet, shaking, his face white.
“Only one now,” Judith corrected him. “Can…can we hold them off?”
“Of course we can,” he replied, his breath ragged, swaying a little. “But we’ve lost a scalpel.”
Joseph heard about it in the morning, standing in the wreckage of the forward trench, the parapet collapsed, mud up to their knees.
“It’s about the only good thing, Captain Reavley,” Barshey Gee said to him grimly as they stopped working on rebuilding the trench walls for a moment. “He’s some doc, eh, Cavan? There he was, cool as a cucumber, stitching away like there were nothing going on! An’ your sister with him. An’ that Yank ambulance driver, too.” Barshey was a tall man with thick hair. Before the war he had been slender; now he was gaunt and looked years older than twenty-four. “Got ’em out, they did. Didn’t leave a single live