My gaze drops to the blood-stained floor. “I don’t know where he would be.”
Billy presses his soot covered fingers beneath my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “Don’t give up hope, Miss Salzberg.”
Multiple groans and moans grow from the ICU block. “The morphine is wearing off,” I explain.
“We’re grateful for you. I need to go update the list of casualties. Take care of yourself, Miss Salzberg. I promise to keep my sights out for Lieutenant Anderson.”
I wrap my arms around his neck for a quick embrace, feeling him wince beneath my grip. “Please get yourself checked out, Billy.”
“I’m just sore. Don’t worry about me.”
“Thank you for the wake-up call,” I say, offering a small smile.
He tips his head and pivots on his heels to leave in the opposite direction.
I gather a cart of supplies for the rounds, preparing several doses of morphine to administer first. Some dressings need checking, and any blood loss from the amputees. Other than the most severely injured, most of the others are stable at the moment, aside from pain, but infection can set in rapidly if we don’t monitor their wounds closely. Once we make it past the point of infection, morale will be what counts more than the pain killers.
“Miss, could you do me a favor when you have a moment?” a gentleman from a bed across the block asks.
“Yes, Sir. What can I do for you?”
“Could you check the list for a name?”
After noting how long the list was earlier, I have been avoiding the idea of looking at it again. “Of course, Sir. What’s the name?”
“Danny Paige. He’s my brother.”
“I’m happy to go look just as soon as I finish checking on the rest of the men here.”
I haven’t had to inform anyone of a death. I pray his brother’s name isn’t on there, but as I know well, it doesn’t quite matter if his name is or isn’t on the list. There are so many men still unaccounted for.
“He was on The Arizona.” I glance at the man’s file in search of his name. Trevor Paige. He also was on The Arizona, but one of the least injured of what I’ve seen today.
I find myself in a fog as I move to the next bed, realizing I’m allowing my emotions to slip ahead of my focus. I squeeze my eyes tightly, swallow hard and take in a deep breath. This man is most important now. There is no one else.
Gunnery Sergeant Peters is one of the few soldiers I’ve had in this block. Most of the injured have been sailors. He’s awake but lost in his mind, staring at the white speckled ceiling.
“How are you feeling, Gunnery Sergeant?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or blink. His cheeks are pale and dewy, and when I check his pulse, I find a rapid heartbeat along with short, quick breaths. “Can you hear me, Gunnery Sergeant?”
Still no response. He’s in shock, but there could be a dozen different reasons for his trance-like expression. The dressing around the capped amputation of his right arm is burgundy and nowhere near as tight as it should be, or as I left it earlier. Blood is oozing from the wound. It wasn’t before. I increase the flow of IV fluids and tend to the dressing on the wound, finding the pale pallor of his skin morphing into a gray hue toward his elbow.
“Gunnery Sergeant, could you blink if you hear me talking?”
Nothing. I should have been watching him more closely. This is my fault.
“He loosened the tourniquet, nurse. I watched him do it,” the patient in the next bed over states. I look back and forth between the man speaking and the patient I’m treating, wondering why he would do such a thing. “We’ve seen too much. I can’t say I blame him for wanting to give up.”
Give up.The words sear through my stomach.
I grab a belt tourniquet from my cart and place it above the stump, pulling the soft leather with all the strength I have. The sling hanging from the metal bar above needs to be higher to assist the blood flow to the proper direction.
“I need a medic in Unit 2, Block A, Bed 5,” I shout. “Hemorrhage.” The color isn’t returning to his skin and his pulse is still racing. The medic who has been making his rounds through this unit for most of the day brushes by the draped curtains. “He may need a transfusion.”
“Yes, go ahead,” the medic instructs before leaving as swiftly as he arrived.
This man’s life is in my hands, and if I’m wrong, he could die. He could end up being another name on the list.
24
