Free Amy by Peggy Savage Page B

scratch. Nothing to worry about.’ His voice was light and cheerful, but behind that his face was deathly pale and his hands were shaking. He put them hurriedly in his pockets. His eyes seemed to have sunk, set back in their sockets, as if they didn’t want to see the sights before them.
    He’s probably a Quaker, Amy thought. She had met several Quakers now; they often came from the North, from the Lakes. They wouldn’t kill, but they were in the thick of it, caring for the wounded.
    Her voice shook. ‘How long have they been here?’
    ‘Since yesterday morning.’
    Bill gasped, ‘My God,’ and ran outside the door and Amy could hear him retching.
    With a familiar effort, she faced what she had to do now. For a moment she closed her eyes. She tried to force down every feeling, every emotion. Pity and compassion had to be put by, stored away for another time, another need. What was needed now was efficiency, common sense. She steeled herself not to listen to the voices begging for help. She must take the men who could stand the journey; the men who had a chance of survival.
    ‘Can any of you walk, or sit up?’ she said. One or two hands were raised, one or two voices called out. Bill came in behind her with the stretchers and a few of the men from the village. She selected as many as the ambulance could take, some on stretchers, some sitting, a few able to walk with help. She gave morphine to those in severe pain and a measure of brandy in their dirty tin cups.
    She came to a young man who was lying silently, his bottom lip bruised and bleeding from his biting, his muscles tense as he struggled not to move with every breath that he took. He was covered in filth and his left thigh was covered roughly with a blood-soaked bandage.
    ‘We’ll take this man, Bill,’ she said.
    ‘No you won’t.’ His voice, wrenched out from between set teeth, was cultured, confident and firm – used to command. Amy saw that his tattered rags were the remains of an officer’s uniform – a lieutenant. ‘Take the men,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’ His fair hair was thick with mud and his face stretched with pain but the blue eyes were clear and hard.
    She knelt down beside him. ‘I have to take whoever can stand the journey,’ she said softly. ‘I have to decide.’
    ‘Take the men,’ he said. ‘That is an order.’
    She met his eyes, hostile and angry. ‘I’m going to give you some morphine,’ she said. ‘At least I can ease the pain.’ She took out the syringe and morphine. Dr Hanfield had carefully taught the orderlies how to give injections, and she had allowed herself to be taught, carefully silent.
    His eyes remained fixed on her as she filled the syringe, staring at her, glittering. She slipped the needle into his arm. She watched, as she had so often, as the lines of pain began to slide from his face. For thehundredth time she thanked God, or man, or both, for the drugs that eased pain. He continued to stare at her but soon his hard gaze changed to a look of puzzlement, as if trying to place her. Then, as the pain that was his overwhelming stimulus eased away, his eyes filmed and closed and he lost consciousness. His head fell forward.
    ‘He’s unconscious, Bill,’ she said. ‘We can take him now. He’s probably got a fractured femur. We’ll need a splint and we must be very careful. We don’t want to damage his femoral artery.’ Bill gave her a look that was half enquiring, half surprised, but he went off to get the splint without comment. I don’t care, she thought, if he thinks I know more than I should. She and the army orderly fitted the splint and they lifted the young officer carefully on to a stretcher.
    They loaded the ambulance, cramming in as many as they could. Amy said goodbye to the priest. She turned to the orderly.
    ‘I’ll send someone for the others,’ she said. ‘as soon as I can.’ He looked grim, but said nothing. He didn’t have to. ‘Tomorrow,’ she added hurriedly. His eyes