Never liked the name Gilbert, the man mumbled.
Its a fine name, she assured him.
Dr. Luther said, Help me turn him over. Ive got a bad feeling about-
Ive got him. You can lift him. And, Im sorry, Gilbert Henry-she repeated his name to better remember it later-but this is gonna smart. Here, give me your good hand.
He took it.
Now, give it a squeeze if were hurting you.
I could never, he insisted, gallant to the last.
You can and you will, and youll be glad I made the offer. You wont put a dent in me, I promise. Now, on the count of three, she told the doctor, locking her eyes to his.
He picked up the count. One . . . Two . . . On three, they hoisted the man together, turning him onto his side and confirming the worst of Dr. Luthers bad feelings.
Gilbert Henry said, One of you, say something. Dont leave a man hanging. The second half of it came out in a wheeze, for part of the force of his words had leaked out through the oozing hole in his side.
A couple of ribs, the doctor said. Smashed all to hell, he continued, because he was well past watching his language in front of the nurses, much less in front of Mercy, who often used far fouler diction if she thought the situation required it.
Three ribs, maybe, she observed. She observed more than that, too. But she couldnt say it, not while Gilbert Henry had a death grip on her hand.
The ribs were the least of his problems. The destroyed arm was a greater one, and it would certainly need to be amputated; but what she saw now raised the question of whether or not it was worth the pain and suffering. His lung was pierced at least, shredded at worst. Whatever blast had maimed him had caught him on the left side, taking that arm and tearing into the soft flesh of his torso. With every breath, a burst of warm, damp air spilled out from amid the wreckage of his rib cage.
It was not the kind of wound from which a man recovered.
Help me roll him back, Dr. Luther urged, and on a second count of three, Mercy obliged. Son, Ive got to tell you the truth. Theres nothing to be done about that arm.
I . . . was . . . afraid of that. But, Doc, I cant hardly breathe. Thats the ribs . . . aint it?
Now that she knew where to look, Mercy could see the rhythmic ooze above his ribs, fresher now, as if the motion of adjusting him had made matters worse. Gilbert Henry might have a couple of hours, or he might have a couple of minutes. But no longer than that, without a straight-from-Gods-hand miracle.
She answered for the doctor, who was still formulating a response. Yes, thats your ribs.
He grimaced, and the shredded arm fluttered.
Dr. Luther said, It has to go. Were going to need the ether.
Ether? Ive never had any ether before. He sounded honestly afraid.
Never? Mercy said casually as she reached for the rolling tray with the knockout supplies. It had two shelves; the top one stocked the substance itself and
clean rags, plus one of the newfangled mask-and-valve sets that Captain Sally had purchased with her own money. They were the height of technology, and very expensive. Its not so bad, I promise. In your condition, Id call it a blessed relief, Mr. Gilbert Henry.
He grasped for her hand again. You wont leave me, will you?
Absolutely not, she promised. It wasnt a vow she was positive she could keep, but the soldier couldnt tell it from her voice.
His thin seam of a grin returned. As long as youll . . . be here.
The second tray on the rolling cart held nastier instruments. Mercy took care to hide them behind her skirt and apron. He didnt need to see the powered saw, the twisting clamps, or the oversized shears that were sometimes needed to sever those last few tendons. She made sure that all he saw was her professional pleasantness as she disentangled her fingers and began the preparation work, while the doctor situated himself, lining up the gentler-looking implements and calling for extra rags, sponges, and a second basin filled with hot water-if the nearest retained man could see to it.
Mercy, Dr. Luther said. It was a request and a signal.
Yes, Doctor. She said to Gilbert Henry, Its time, darling. Im very sorry, but believe me, youll wake up praising Jesus that you slept through it.
It wasnt her most reassuring speech ever, but on the far side of Gilbert Henry were two other men behind the curtain, each one of whom needed similar attention; and her internal manufacturer of soothing phrases was not performing at its best.
She showed him the mask, a shape like a softened triangle, bubbled to fit over his nose and mouth. You see this? Im going to place it over your face, like so- She held it up over her own mouth, briefly, for demonstrative purposes. Then Ill tweak a few knobs over here on this tank- At this, she pointed at the bullet-shaped vial, a little bigger than a bottle of wine. Then Ill mix the ether with the stabilizing gases, and before you can say boo, youll be having the best sleep of your life.
Youve . . . done this . . . before?
The words were coming harder to him; he was failing as he lay there, and she knew-suddenly, horribly-that once she placed the mask over his face, he wasnt ever going to wake up. She fought to keep the warm panic out of her eyes when she said, Dozens of times. Ive been here a year and a half, she exaggerated. Then she set the mask aside and seized the noteboard that was propped up against his cot, most of its forms left unfilled.