Tatiana and Alexander: A Novel(122)

Alexander put his own wet towel against Pasha's nose and mouth. It wasn't helping, and he himself was Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

gagging. The open flames had been better than the enemy smoke in the oppressive forest. Ouspensky was pulling on his arm. The rest of the German men were up ahead already, held together by Demko's--the last remaining foot soldier's--machine gun. They were dozens of meters ahead, but Alexander couldn't get through the bush and could not leave Pasha. Couldn't move forward, couldn't move back.

Something had to be done. Pasha was hacking, wheezing, gasping for the breath that wouldn't come. Alexander grabbed Pasha, threw him over his shoulders, took the rag from him to cover his own mouth and ran. Ouspensky ran with him.

How much time had Alexander lost carrying Pasha? Thirty seconds? One minute? It was hard to tell. Judging by the man's stifling inability to draw in a breath, it was too long. Soon it would be too late. He called for Ouspensky when the air was slightly clearer.

"Where's the medic?" Alexander panted.

"Medic's dead. Remember? We took his helmet."

Alexander could barely remember.

"Didn't he have an assistant?"

"Assistant died seven days ago."

Carefully Alexander moved Pasha off his back, and sat down holding him in his arms. Ouspensky glanced at them. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. He wasn't hit, he didn't swallow anything." Just in case, Alexander elongated Pasha's neck to be in a straight line with the rest of his body, and stuck his fingers into Pasha's mouth, feeling around for any obstructions. There weren't any, but deeper near the esophagus, he felt around for the opening to the trachea and there wasn't one. The throat felt pulpy and thickened. Quickly Alexander kneeled over Pasha, held his nose shut and blew quick breaths into Pasha's throat. Nothing. He breathed long breaths into Pasha's throat. Still nothing. He felt for the opening in the mouth again. There wasn't any. Alexander became frightened. "What the hell is happening?" he muttered. "What's wrong with him?"

"I've seen it before," Ouspensky said. "Back at Sinyavino. Seen a number of men die from smoke inhalation. Their throat swells;completely closes up. By the time the swelling goes down, they're dead." He took a wet breath from his coast. "He's finished," said Ouspensky. "He can't breathe, there is nothing you can do for him."

Alexander could swear there was satisfaction in Ouspensky's voice. He didn't have the time to respond to it. He lay Pasha on the ground, flat on his back, and placed the rolled-up bloody towel under his neck, with his head slightly tilted backward to expose his throat. Rummaging through his rucksack, Alexander found his pen. Thank God it was broken. For some reason the ink didn't drip down to the nib. Thank God for Soviet manufacturing. Dismantling the pen, he put aside the hollow barrell and then took out his knife.

"What are you going to do, Captain?" said Ouspensky, pointing to the knife in Alexander's hand. "Are you going to cut his throat?"

"Yes," said Alexander. "Now shut up and stop talking to me." Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Ouspensky kneeled down. "I was being facetious."

"Shine a light on his throat and hold it steady. That's your job. Also hold this plastic tube and this twine. When I tell you, give the tube to me. Understood?"

They got ready. Alexander took a deep breath. He knew he had no time. He looked at his fingers. They were steady.

Feeling down Pasha's throat, Alexander found his protruding Adam's apple, felt a little lower and found the skin stretching over the tracheal cavity. Alexander knew there was nothing but skin protecting the tracheal lumen right under Pasha's Adam's apple. If he was very careful, he could make a small incision and stick the tube into Pasha's throat to allow him to breathe. But just a small incision. He had never done it. His hands weren't meant for delicate work, not like Tania's. "Here goes," he whispered, held his breath, and lowered his knife to Pasha's throat. Ouspensky's hands were shaking, judging by the shaking of the flashlight. "Lieutenant, for f*ck's sake, hold still."

Ouspensky tried. "Have you ever done this before, Captain?"

"No. Seen it done, though."

"With success?"

"Not much success," said Alexander. He'd seen two medics do it twice. Both soldiers didn't make it. One was cut too deep, and the fragile trachea was sheared in half by a knife that was too heavy. The other never opened his eyes again. Breathed, just never opened his eyes.

Very slowly, Alexander cut two centimeters of Pasha's skin. It was resistant to the knife. Then the skin bled, making it hard to see how far he was cutting. He needed a scalpel, but all he had was the army knife he shaved with and killed with. He cut a little deeper, a little deeper, and then put the knife between his teeth and opened up the skin with his fingers, exposing a bit of cartilage on both sides of the membrane. Holding the skin open, Alexander made a small cut in the membrane below the Adam's apple, and suddenly there was a sucking sound in Pasha's throat as air from the outside was vacuumed in. Alexander continued to hold it open with his fingers, letting the lungs fill with air and force the air out through the opening in the throat. It wasn't as efficient as using the upper airways such as the nose and mouth, but it would do.