Near the base of the mole stood tents marked with the red cross.
Hugh shouldered his way into a tent. “My friend has been shot.”
“Right this way.” An orderly ushered them inside. “You’re civilians?”
“Correspondents.” A wheeze entered Hugh’s voice. He winced as he and Young lowered Jouveau to the designated cot.
A medical officer strode over. “Patient’s name?”
“François Jouveau,” Hugh said.
The medical officer’s eyebrows rose. “He’s French?”
“Yes, sir.” Hugh stretched tall and drilled his gaze into the doctor. “He’s a correspondent. Youwillbe able to treat him.”
“Of course.”
The medical officer untied Hugh’s bandage and examined Jouveau’s leg. “It looks like the bullet went through. Orderly, clean and bandage the wound, then take him to X-ray.”
“Yes, sir.”
The medical officer smiled down at Jouveau. “You’re a lucky man. This wound qualifies you for evacuation. You should be ready to leave tomorrow morning.”
Hugh and Young exchanged a relieved look. But the tightening in Hugh’s chest increased, and each breath fought its way in, fought its way out.
Young tipped Jouveau a salute. “See you on the other side of the Channel.”
“Thank you, my friends.” Jouveau raised a shaky hand. “Au revoir.”
Young turned to Hugh. “Let’s scrounge up some supper.”
Hugh’s breath threatened a revealing whistle. He needed medicine and he needed privacy. He pulled the notepad from his overcoat pocket. “I’ll stay and get another story. I’ll meet you at the van later.”
Young chuckled and departed.
As soon as the tent flap closed behind Young, Hugh spun to the medical officer. “Excuse me, sir. I’m having an asthmatic attack. May I please have some epinephrine?”
“You have asthma?” The medical officer practically pushed Hugh down to a cot. “What in heaven’s name are you doing on a battlefield?”
“I’m a correspondent.” Hugh opened his overcoat.
The medical officer burrowed his stethoscope under Hugh’s suit jacket. “I hear the wheeze. With your condition, you should know better. You don’t belong here.”
Hugh stiffened. If he let his condition dictate his life, he’d never go anywhere.
The medical officer straightened up. “Orderly, administer epinephrine, then put this man directly onto the next ship.”
“No, sir.” Hugh fought to keep his voice strong. “Correspondents have lowest priority. I won’t take the place—”
“You’re as lucky as your French friend. Luckier, in fact. Next ship.” He marched away.
Hugh groaned, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his shirtsleeve for the injection. How could he board that ship while soldiers remained on the beach? While stories remained on the beach?
Soon the blessed medicine warmed his veins and relaxed his airways, and air flowed freely once again.
“Do you feel better now?” The orderly spoke to Hugh as if he were a child. Or an invalid.
This was why Hugh concealed his asthma. As his tutor, George Baldwin, had said, “If you don’t want to be treated as an invalid, don’t allow anyone to see you as one.”
