Free Guns to the Far East by V. A. Stuart Page A

his adding to the demands on their skill. He pulled back his sodden sleeve, and only when he saw a jagged end of bone protruding from the bloodstained flesh was it borne on him that his wound was a serious one. He cursed it savagely. Devil take the infernal thing … after coming unscathed through the day’s action, it was infuriating to receive a wound which would render him hors de combat, perhaps for weeks, long after the action had been concluded!
    Jim Goodenough, the Raleigh ’s First Lieutenant, who had been commanding the Hong Kong during the attack on the junks, came to his side.
    â€œWe’re through the worst of it now, I think,” he said. “But the blasted water’s gaining on us and …” He broke off, staring with red-rimmed eyes at Phillip’s arm. “Good God, Phillip … you look as if you’ve caught it and no mistake!” He assisted in stopping the bleeding, using his own smoke-grimed neck-cloth as a tourniquet. “Sorry if I hurt you—I’m no surgeon, I’m afraid. Were you hit just now?”
    â€œYes,” Phillip confirmed bitterly. “I was.”
    â€œInfernal bad luck,” Goodenough sympathised. “I wonder who gave the order to burn those junks—our people or the Chinese? Whoever it was, they could hardly have chosen a more inopportune moment, could they? While it lasted, that was the heaviest fire we’ve been under all day.” He mopped his brow, adding wearily, “I’d better relieve the men at the pumps or we’ll never make it to Hong Kong. The last report I had was that the water had almost risen to the stokehold firepits—God help us if it does, because we’re leaking like a sieve. You’ll get a surgeon to look at that arm, won’t you? The tourniquet’s a bit amateurish and it ought to be loosened after twenty minutes or so, I believe.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll attend to it,” Phillip assured him. “You carry on and thanks for your help, my dear fellow.”
    It was an hour before he found a surgeon free at last of his more pressing duties. Unshaven and dropping with weariness, the doctor subjected the arm to a cursory examination, shook his head glumly and instructed the young assistant who was with him to dress and splint it.
    â€œYou may lose this arm, Commander,” he warned, with brusque honesty. “It’s a nasty fracture. But all amputations will have to wait until we can get our wounded to the hospital ship—they can’t be done aboard this leaking tub. You’ll be transferred of course, and we’ll see how it is then. Your name is … ?”
    â€œHazard, Doctor—of the Raleigh. ”
    The surgeon noted the name on his pad. “I’ll try and see you again if I can, Commander Hazard. You’ll be a bit more comfortable once the splint is on—I should try to get some sleep, if you can find space to lie down.”
    The arm was still numb, the splinting, even so, agonising enough, although the young surgeon’s mate did his work with skill and deftness, and Phillip was glad, when it was over, to find room to seat himself cross-legged on the forward part of the deck, his back propped up against the rail. He felt oddly light-headed and apathetic. Although he had heard, he had not really taken in the surgeon’s grim warning concerning the possibility that he might lose his arm—that was something for the future and decision would, in any event, be postponed until a proper examination could be made, so there was little to be gained by thinking about it now. There were wounded men all round him, worse off than he, some crying out in delirium, others too far gone even to raise their voices, and one or two— wadding-wrapped burn cases—whose torment was such that they moaned ceaselessly, making sleep impossible for those in their vicinity.
    Phillip did what he could for them. His flask was