The soldier blew air on his gloveless hands. “Everyone but the one with frostbite.”
Ruth retrieved a stretcher from her ambulance, and the lieutenant led them around the blockhouse to a windowless steel door. Ruth entered the fortification and was met by a sour stench of sweat. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the space, lit by the dull glow of lanterns. Over a dozen soldiers—their faces unshaven and their eyes dark and sunken—were either hunkered on bunks or huddled around a small camp stove with a coffeepot. A string of dried sausage, covered in a layer of white mold, hung from the ceiling. There was no toilet and the only source of water appeared to be from canteens. The space was damp and plagued with pill bugs, and it reminded Ruth of her parents’ root cellar back on the farm. Coughs and wheezes emanated from the far corner of the blockhouse, where five men were curled on cots with layers of blankets.
No wonder they’re falling ill, Ruth thought.
She and Lucette, with the help of a few other soldiers to carry the frostbitten soldier on a stretcher, loaded the infirm men into their ambulances. They closed the rear doors, took their places behind the wheel, and pulled away.
“Wait!” a voice shouted.
Ruth glanced at her side mirror to see the lieutenant running after them. She and Lucette stopped the vehicles and got out.
“We received a radio message from a squad in a nearby bunker,” the lieutenant said, catching up to them. He took gulps of air to catch his breath. “They saw your ambulances enter the area. One of their soldiers severely injured his hand. They sent a wireless transmission to request medical help, but the closest medic is forty minutes away.”
Ruth swallowed. “Where are they located?”
The lieutenant pointed. “Two kilometers. The bunker is near a railroad line. You’ll reach it before you turn onto the main road that leads away from the front.”
“Let them know that we’re on our way,” Ruth said.
The lieutenant nodded and fled toward the blockhouse.
Ruth turned to Lucette. “I have room in my ambulance. Go on ahead, and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Lucette said. “Besides, it’s on our route.”
“All right. I’ll see you there.”
Ruth and Lucette climbed into their ambulances and sped away. Within minutes, they reached a concrete bunker that protruded from an earthen mound. Two soldiers were tending to a man who was lying on the ground near a rail line, which appeared to be used by the military to transport heavy equipment, given the idle flatcars that were loaded with artillery guns and howitzers. They exited their vehicles to the sound of a man wailing with pain.
A cold chill ran down Ruth’s spine. She grabbed her medical kit and ran with Lucette to the group. The injured soldier—his right hand wrapped in a handkerchief that was drenched with blood—cried out as his comrades tightened a belt around his forearm and applied pressure to his wound.
“We’re here to help,” Ruth said. “What’s the injury?”
“We were preparing to transport artillery,” a young soldier said, his voice quavering. “He got his hand caught between railcar couplers.”
Ruth kneeled beside the injured soldier. “Can you tell me your name?”
He grimaced and sucked in air. “Claude.”
“You’re going to be all right, Claude,” Ruth said. “I’m going to take a peek at your hand. Will that be all right with you?”
“Oui,” he groaned.
The soldiers carefully unwrapped the handkerchief to reveal their comrade’s hand, crushed and partially severed at the wrist. Blood spurted from the wound.
Oh God. Fear flooded Ruth’s veins.
Lucette’s eyes widened. “The belt is too loose—he needs a smaller tourniquet.”
Ruth’s mind raced. She thought of rummaging through her medical kit, but decided that bandages and gauze would do little good. She removed the necktie from her uniform. “Get me a stick or something to tighten it.”
One of the soldiers darted to the bunker and returned with a screwdriver.
Ruth wrapped her necktie around the man’s forearm, knotted the ends together, and twisted the makeshift tourniquet tight with the screwdriver.
Claude howled.
Lucette opened the medical kit, prepared a morphine injection, and kneeled to the injured soldier. “I’m going to give you something for the pain.”
The man’s body spasmed. His comrades struggled to hold him still.
Lucette trembled as she raised the syringe. She steadied her hand and injected the morphine into Claude’s arm. As seconds passed, his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Ruth said, applying pressure to the tourniquet. “We can’t wait for the medic to arrive. Could one of you come with me on the transport to the hospital? We need to keep pressure on his arm.”
“I wish one of us could,” a soldier said. “We have strict orders to remain at our post.”
“Then you’ll need to care for some ill men in one of our ambulances until we return.”
“Of course,” the soldier said.
Ruth looked at Lucette. “You drive and I’ll sit in the back with Claude.”
Lucette nodded. She sprinted away and retrieved a stretcher.
“Our ambulances aren’t equipped with wireless radios,” Ruth said, looking at one of the soldiers, his hands covered with blood. “Relay a communication to the medic and the hospital in Saint-Quentin to let them know what we are doing.”
“I will,” he said.
