walking wounded

fracture_childThu 17/01/08 18:48

WALKING WOUNDED

The battle had ended two days ago, but still the stench of death hung in the air .The military did not have the resources to collect the casualties and so the corpses were simply left to rot under the star-lit sky. Such things were not considered important at a time of victory. The enemy had been routed, driven back miles into their own territories. For hours now, the media networks had been buzzing with the news. Images of the glorious, returning troops were being watched in every home. The cities were noisy with bombastic speeches and strident music. There would be no pictures of the battlefield now that the fighting was done. Very few would see the aftermath.
As he drove his medic-pod slowly across the ravaged, blackened landscape, Doctor Streeter wished he was not one of the few. He tried desperately to ignore his surroundings, but the sights and smells were inescapable. It was like driving through the ruins of a slaughterhouse.
Ever few seconds, the pod - little more than a spherical red cabin on caterpillar tacks - jolted as it encountered the crater left by a shell or collided with a burnt lump of flesh.
Life had caught him unawares, he reflected glumly. It had allowed him his dreams and illusions and then taken them away, one by one. By now, he should have been enjoying a career in consulting rooms and conference centres, his opinions respected and revered. When the war had started, he had still clung on to his hopes for a while. Medical staff were expected to multi-task just like everyone else. Initially he had relished the chance to prove his genius in every field. Within a few months of being doctor, nurse, driver, field surgeon and counsellor, he had realized how little his skill mattered. The jobs had to be done, no-one cared how or by whom. He was no more than a production line worker.
This morning he had been stationed at one of the huge triage tents, sifting through the injured, separating those with a fighting chance from those with no chance. He assumed that everyone knew, as he did, that it was a futile trying to deal with carnage on such a scale. When the next battle started - and that might only be in a matter of days - they would still be clearing up after the skirmish that they had supposedly won.
When the summons had come, he just finished a hastily applied skin graft. According to the message, there was a crisis at the Central Headquarters and he was needed. It seemed his reputation still counted for something. Or more likely, he had told himself, there just wasn't anyone else available.
He had taken a pod and headed into the barren wasteland. Field Command would not disclose any details until he was far away from any potential eavesdroppers. Rumours had a habit of getting out and could do more harm to morale than a nuclear strike. Sometimes it seemed that the leaders feared the minds of their own people more than anything else.
A bleep from the co-ordination system informed Streeter that he had reached the designated location where he was to receive his instructions. There were bodies everywhere. Yellow insects were crawling over them, enjoying the most sumptuous banquet of their short lives. Their movements were slow, each one bloated from consuming so much. There were enemy corpses amongst the dead. Even though they had lost this particular battle, they had suffered fewer casualties. They always did. There were those who saw them as monsters from an ancient fairy tale: trolls with burning eyes that had from the night time places where nightmares waited. Streeter did not share that belief. He though of them a force of nature, like a storm or a virus. They killed simply because that was what they had been born for. To them, killing was no more than kicking a pebble out of the way.
A light flashed aggressively on the control board in front of him. An incoming message, heavily coded. He entered his security clearance and waited while it was checked, double checked and, just for good measure, confirmed at Central.
When it finally came, the message was terse.

Supreme General Jenkin wounded-Disfigurement to forehead and upper left arm-Public address in one hour-all signs of injury must be removed-All haste

So that was the vital task for which he was needed; to remove any traces of the war from the man who lead the army. He shouldn't have been surprised. Jenkin was a hero to millions, the one person who they trusted to lead them to victory. If he was injured, even slightly, then so was the cause. It was a delusion they had all willingly entered into ever since the unremarkable but crafty soldier happened to be in the right place at the right time to seize control. Streeter doubted he'd ever fired a gun in his life. Still, patching up his flesh wounds might bring rewards. Perhaps even a way out of the war for a while.
He started up the medic-pod's hydro engines and drove in the direction of the Central Headquarters. It had been at least a year since he had last seen the place. With luck, he would have time to eat and drink. They had all the best wines.
The landscape around him was unchanging. More bodies, more broken, useless machines. Was this really what a victory looked like? Next to a battle lost, there's nothing half so melancholy as a battle won. Who was it that had said that? Wellington? Lincoln? Churchill? The words seemed to roll around his mind in search of a meaning.
A whimper. High-pitched, agonized and desperate, echoing plaintively in the darkness.
The wreckage of a man was staggering towards him. He was so emaciated that, just for a second, Streeter that that it was a skeleton that had somehow clung to life. It was wearing the tattered remains of a grey uniform. The moaning figure collapsed in front of the approaching medic-pod. Streeter slammed on the brakes, only narrowly avoiding running him over.
He activated the door control. The side of the pod split open and, cautiously, he emerged into the fetid and approached the fallen soldier. There was no signs of movement but he could hear a low sobbing.
Carefully, Streeter turned the figure over. Despite his training, he automatically recoiled at what he saw.
The soldier was little more than a boy, probably conscripted from the farming lands. Half his face had had shattered. One white ball of an eye stared sightlessly from the surrounding devastation. The other, seeing eye, was wide and unblinking. Blood was laced through his long hair. He was stained with a multitude of fluids.
Streeter recognised the cause of the injuries at once. Sliceworms. Tiny, maggot like creatures that the enemy fired at opponents during close combat. They were voracious carnivores, remorselessly devouring their way through flesh and bone. A sliceworm gun sprayed hundreds of them in a single burst. Surviving victims were incredibly rare.
Streeter cradled the boy's head, listening to his gasping breaths. Sometimes he wondered if humanity was destined to be re-made, its shape dictated by the sort of injuries he saw before him. Eventually, a new sense of aesthetics might evolve that would encompass it. A different conception of beauty.
The boy's breathing was becoming faster and he banished those thoughts. Time for all that later perhaps.
There were words that you were supposed to use at times like this. His superiors had always been clear about that. Even if you were making a mess of saving a life, the important thing was to say the

fracture_childThu 17/01/08 18:49

the right thing. It was the only aspect of the work that was monitored in the triage tents.
Doctor Streeter remained silent and considered. He had the necessary equipment in the pod to begin the life saving treatment. Some of it would be improvisation of course. Still, he knew it could be done. But it would take time. Supreme General Jenkin was waiting for his cosmetic repairs. There was a speech to be made. Streeter hesitated for a moment. Then he went to get his medical case.
He started with an injection. A powerful anti-toxin spread through the boy, eradicating the sliceworms that were living in his flesh. Fortunately, none seemed to have reached his brain. He followed that with a dose of suppressants to dull the agony of the injuries. The soldier sighed softly and the crazed look in his remaining eye seemed to diminish slightly. Next, he attached skin graft cultures to the major wounds. Streeter was working quickly but calmly. All other considerations had been set aside. There was only the patient.
The cultures took well. The damaged flesh had a chance of recovery, though there would be inevitable scarring. But the would need constant attention to be sure that they healed as well as possible. Moreover, thought Streeter, the boy was clearly suffering from massive emotional trauma and would require intensive counselling. In short, he would need the sort of care that he was not going to get.
His work done, Doctor Streeter looked down at his patient. This was where he should walk away. There was still time to get to Headquarters before anyone started to wonder where he was. A little minor surgery for General Jenkin and he might be looking at a first rate pension, a large house, even freedom from the war.
He sighed. He had always wanted to prove what kind of a man he really was. And now the chance was before him. A simple choice.
For a whole minute, he imagined the presentations and the honours. The comfort and luxury of a life far away from all this. Then picked up the wounded soldier and carried him to the medic pod.
As he drove in the opposite direction to the Central Headquarters, he was already making plans. He would commandeer an anonymous vehicle and head for one of the small hospitals in the independent territories. Once there, he would trade his considerable skills for all the resources he needed to treat the patient. Of course, he would need to adopt a new name. He was officially a traitor now.
Driving through the bodies of the dead, Streeter found himself whistling cheerfully. He had abandoned the chance of reputation and wealth but he was finally making a difference.

By Damian Whittle