Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(63)

The captain is wearing slippers out of doors, while in uniform. No, that is not quite military. But the shoulder patch of the caduceus—two snakes twined about a pole beneath a dove’s wings—definitely indicates that he’s in the medical service in some capacity.

He winks, understanding that she cannot say anything critical, being just a private. “I am a doctor, as it happens. I’m a thoracic surgeon by trade, and an army captain by virtue of my local draft board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Do you think you can kneel beside a man whose intestines are lying on the ground and tell that man he’s going to be all right, and sew him up quick and slap on a bandage and get him to an aid station while German artillery is dropping all around you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

There’s a sad twinkle in his eye. “Good answer. I don’t know either, I have not been asked to do that. What I do know is that as a medic you won’t be carrying a gun, you won’t get to shoot back, and you’ll have a nice big red-and-white cross on your helmet that lets everyone know you’re a medic. If you think the enemy won’t take aim at that cross, you’re mistaken.”

She squares her shoulders, feeling pushed by the doctor, feeling challenged. “I don’t know, sir, but I don’t think I’m a coward.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. He pulls a thankfully clean handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her. Then he sits down beside her and lays his arm on the table. “Bullet wound. Lots of blood. What do you do first?”

For just a second she freezes. What is this? She hasn’t even taken a single class yet, she barely knows where her cot is, and she wouldn’t recognize her new sergeant if he walked up and said howdy.

“First thing, see if it’s an artery or something smaller.”

“And?”

She presses the ball of her palm down on his arm. “It’s an artery. It’s pulsing. I press down to slow the blood.”

“It hurts. Give me morphine.”

“Not yet, sir.” Then, unsure of her snap answer, she says, “Right?”

“Morphine might put me into shock,” he says. “Priorities. First priority, don’t let me bleed to death while you’re shooting me up with morphine.”

“Yes, sir.” And now, strange as it seems, she’s enjoying this. “Pressure to slow the bleeding. Sulfa powder.” She mimes tearing open a package with her teeth and sprinkling powder on the wound. Then, with her one free hand she folds his handkerchief just like the illustration she saw earlier and wraps this around his arm.

She mimes something else, and he interrupts to say, “What are you doing?”

“Sir, I’m making a thick square of gauze to place under the bandage to help keep the pressure on.” She wraps the actual handkerchief over the imaginary gauze and ties it off.

The doctor inspects her work. “Well, I’ll bleed to death most likely.”

Frangie is crestfallen.

“You didn’t check the other side of my arm, Private. Bullets go in, but they often come out, too, and when they come out they make a much bigger mess than when they go in.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stands up. “I’m Dr., er, Captain Washington. And I’m going to guess that you have applied bandages before.”

“Just on animals, sir.”

“Ah. Tender heart, eh?”

“Sir, I . . .”

“A tender heart is not a bad thing in a medic, or a doctor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you study hard, Private . . .”

“Marr, sir. Private Frangie Marr.”

“Okay, Marr. You study hard. You study so you know it all, not just in your head but in your fingers. That’s where the real memory is. In your fingers, in your hands. When you’re getting shot at your brain may forget and only your hands remember.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.” He blows air out, making a fluttery sound with his lips. “The instructors are mostly hard-asses and they will be all over you, you understand, you being a female. Most of them don’t much like the notion of a young woman out in the action.”

“But not you, sir?”

“Well, Private, I don’t like the idea of judging people by superficial criteria. I’ll judge you the same way I judge every other candidate who comes through here.”

Only then does it dawn on Frangie that this doctor, this captain, is in charge.

“I’ll judge you by your work, and on whether I think you can send boys home alive who by rights should be dead. If you screw up, if you don’t memorize those manuals, and more besides, I’ll wash you out. That may sound harsh—”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“Either I’m good enough or I’m not, sir.”

He nods and smiles. “Good talking to you, Private.”

They salute, and Frangie sits back down, shaking. Then she notices the handkerchief.

“Sir!” she holds it up.

“Keep it. Practice with it. That was a sloppy cravat. Sergeant Peel will scalp you if you show her that kind of work.”

She says “yes, sir” again and opens her manual. And once she’s sure the captain is out of earshot, she grins hugely and says, “This is going to be fun.”