Dead Man's Land by Robert Ryan Read Free Book Online

water. The more seriously injured would be passed down the line by horse or motor ambulance to the Main Dressing Station, where some emergency surgery was possible.
    Eventually, motor ambulances would transfer the worst cases to the tents and ancillary buildings of the more permanent Casualty Clearing Station, where the doctors and nurses readied them for evacuation, by train or barge, to a base hospital. There, conventional care could take place, before, if they were lucky, the injured were shipped back home.
    It was, at least on paper, a well-drilled system. There was little that felt smooth or efficient about the scene that greeted Watson at the reception tent, though.
    A steady procession of battered motor ambulances was emerging from the thin, unnatural fog that shrouded the countryside. They halted long enough for orderlies to grab the stretchers or help down the walking wounded before turning round and heading upstream against the tide of new arrivals. The CCS unloading area was quickly overwhelmed as row upon row of stretchers began to fan out. Most occupants were bandaged or had limbs encased in a Thomas splint, evidence of hasty care at the advanced stations.
    Groups of ‘walking wounded’, caked with blood, yellow mud and black earth, had spread out their capes and sat, with whatever rifles and kit they had managed to bring lying next to them. It had always amazed Watson just how much the modern Tommy was expected to carry – a backbreaking ninety pounds of gear; a sodden greatcoat added another sixty in conditions like this. A Lewis gun or the ammunition for one increased the burden even more.
    Almost every soldier who could manage it was smoking, and a fug of Woodbine and Gold Flake mixed with the petrol fumes that hung over the whole scene. Some leaned over and put a cigarette between the lips of a prone comrade, letting him suck in smoke until the patient gave a grateful thumbsup. The eerie thing was, no man spoke or cried out. It was as if they had been robbed of the ability to speak or utter any sound. All they could do was smoke their gaspers as if their fragile lives depended on it. As Watson examined the men, some of the soldiers stared back at him, eyes hooded with fatigue or shock or a mixture of the two.
    Orderlies moved among them, collecting up rifles and Mills bombs to be transferred to a kit store. Some argued, not wanting to be parted from their lucky rifle or talismanic bayonet. The orderlies explained that they could hardly sleep with them in a medical ward. In a few cases a label was attached, so a man could reclaim his own weapon.
    And still the ambulances came, gears grinding, cabs rocking and twisting on the rutted road. Some of them were the new Vauxhall and Humbers – often bearing the name of the organization or individual from back home who had funded its purchase – but mostly they were of the original generation of ambulance: a lorry chassis with a makeshift body bolted on the rear. There were even some horse-drawn carts with stretchers loaded where once hay, turnips or potatoes would have been transported.
    And this a quiet section of the front, Watson thought. What must—
    ‘Major Watson!’ Staff Nurse Jennings beckoned him from the open sides of the triage/reception tent, where long trestle tables received the stretchers and each case was assessed before being moved on to the appropriate ward or, in some cases, the mortuary.
    ‘Yes, how can I help?’ he asked, hurrying over.
    ‘Over here.’
    He stepped into the tent and into a miasma of stale sweat, tart chemicals and fresh blood. A series of barked instructions rang out, mostly coming from a man in a white coat who, beneath it, was seemingly dressed for a round of golf. The accent was American or Canadian, Watson wasn’t certain.
    ‘Re-suss! This guy needs morphine. Where’s his label? What do you mean it’s fallen off? Re-suss! Are the surgical teams in place? Pre-op now. Now! Staff Nurse – get this wound cleaned