Chapter 2231 - The Wounded
They were still talking when a nurse hurried over and whispered something to the orthopedic surgeon. He laughed bitterly. "Great! Another amputation!"
"More casualties?"
"Just brought in, apparently. A sergeant—his hand was blown apart by a musket." The surgeon shoveled rice into his mouth as he spoke. Xie Yao quickly said, "Take your time eating. I'll go handle the prep."
Bi Cheng was unconscious when they carried him in. One arm was a bloody mess; the hand's shape was unrecognizable. Xie Yao had seen plenty of such firearm wounds lately. In the fighting against the bandits, cold-weapon injuries were few; most battle wounds came from various firearms. Crude as homemade guns were, with limited range, a close-range hit was more than flesh could bear.
Xie Yao picked up the patient card hanging around Bi Cheng's neck: Bi Cheng, National Army Sergeant, Blood Type A, 1605.
"Doctor Xie, the tourniquet..." Chen Ruihe, mindful of the earlier incident, reminded him at once.
"Good catch." Xie Yao checked—the tourniquet had been loosened on schedule. He sighed. Fate was fate. Wang Chuyi's wound hadn't been that serious; if not for the tourniquet, he never would have needed amputation. This patient had encountered a conscientious medic—but his hand was utterly destroyed. Amputation all the same.
He examined the wound closely. Judging by the damage, the sergeant's hand had been hit by a spherical iron ball—he had seen this type of injury before, caused by a heavy Ming matchlock firing a projectile weighing nearly half a kilogram. One could imagine the hand disintegrating on impact.
"This is our squad leader," one of the soldiers who had brought him in stammered. "We were ambushed on the road. He led us in a desperate charge to break through—that's the only reason we escaped. Please, you have to save him..."
"Don't worry. We'll do our best." Xie Yao gave the standard reassurance, then studied the wound again.
"Xiao Chen, you debride. Prep for amputation," Xie Yao ordered.
"We're out of blood bottles..."
"He can do without transfusion for this surgery," Xie Yao said. "Prep IV fluids."
The operating room, which had just been quiet, sprang back to life.
A few days later, the unlucky soldier with the abdominal wound—the one they had discussed over breakfast—was lying in bed, delirious with infection-induced fever. Xie Yao's worry had been well-founded. The Council's homegrown antibiotics were dubious in output, efficacy, and safety—even worse than expired old-timeline supplies. And now, with logistics stretched thin, even those weak drugs couldn't be guaranteed. Surviving infection came down to luck and constitution.
Bi Cheng was in the bed next door. His constitution was strong, and his post-surgical recovery was relatively quick. The nurse gave him pain pills on schedule and offered a few words of comfort—losing a hand was hard for anyone to bear.
"I knew when I got hit that this hand was a goner." Bi Cheng looked at his bandaged arm, crestfallen.
"At least you're alive," the nurse said. "I've heard from upstairs—you've got merit for leading your squad. They're submitting a commendation for you. Don't overthink it. Rest and heal. The Council won't let you down..."
Just then, the feverish soldier in the next bed started groaning again. The nurse excused herself to tend to him. Bi Cheng watched for a while, then sighed—he could tell things were bad.
"Nurse... what's wrong with him?"
"Took a spear to the belly. Peritonitis... severe infection." The nurse studied the patient. "Antibiotics aren't helping much. It's in fate's hands now." She glanced at him a moment. "Looks young. Who knows if he has a wife and kids at home. Such a pity..." She nodded toward another bed. "That one's County Magistrate Wang. Lost a leg too. Still hasn't woken—fever. Touch and go."
The nurse's words made Bi Cheng feel a little better—especially knowing that "that JB magistrate whose orders got us into this mess" had also lost a leg. He felt considerably more at ease; the urge he had expressed on the road—"I'll stick a bayonet in that JB magistrate"—faded from memory.
He lay on his side, gazing at his feverish comrade mumbling nonsense, feeling a kind of kinship in misfortune. Still, he considered himself luckier: at least he was tough—lost a hand, couldn't serve anymore, but with a commendation he'd go home alive. The Council would surely assign him light work, a guaranteed stipend. Not a bad life. Only the hope of marrying a wife was gone. When he'd had all his limbs, no girl had looked twice at him; now that he was a cripple, there was even less hope.
"One, oh one quarter-watch, the moon climbs the east wall—why hasn't Scholar Zhang come yet? Longing's killing this little slave-girl..."
"Two, oh two quarter, the moon on the windowsill—I hear dirt crumble from the wall, so the scholar's here at last. Open the two leaves of the door, and cast my eyes about—but it's just a black dog climbing the wall. Vexed is the little slave-girl..."
"Three, oh three quarter, the moon straight overhead—still no Scholar Zhang, pining to death this little slave-girl... cough, cough... ahh..."
"Hey, Old Zhang, keep singing! Why'd you stop?"
"Cough... she don't like it; she won't come! What, you thinking of going yourself? You ain't touched cat or dog in your life—if you did go, you'd walk through the wrong door!"
"Ha ha ha ha..."
Bi Cheng couldn't roll over easily, so he didn't turn—but a smile tugged at his face. That was Old Zhang singing bawdy ditties again.
Old Zhang had enlisted near Dengzhou. His whole family had been killed by the rebels; if the Fubo Army cavalry hadn't arrived quickly, he would have died on the frozen Shandong plains. But Old Zhang was born to be a soldier. Though uneducated, he was brave and careful, and he liked bayonet fighting—a rare fierce warrior. Despite his illiteracy, he had been promoted to Fubo Army second lieutenant during the expansion—which naturally made him a frequent guest at field hospitals and medical stations. This was his third hospitalization for wounds.
This time, he'd ended up in Yangshan's field hospital by sheer chance. His wound came not from bayonet fighting but from an iron pellet caught while escorting a supply convoy. He had been brought to the nearest facility.
Old Zhang's injury was not critical, but not trivial either—no danger to life, but no quick discharge. So he passed his days in the ward cracking jokes and clowning around, making everyone laugh. This was the light-casualty ward, mostly stable post-op patients, so the nurses rarely stopped him—keeping a positive attitude aided recovery.
"Old Zhang, give it a rest! You've got hemopneumothorax and you're singing dirty songs." A nurse came through on rounds, her face stern. "Time for your medicine. Sit up."
"What's dirty about them? It's the truth! I've been a bachelor my whole life—don't know how to think about a wife. Unless you... ouch ouch ouch, I'll get up!" Old Zhang saw the nurse reaching for his catheter and shut up fast. Grimacing, he sat up and, amid laughter, obediently swallowed his pills.
Bi Cheng struggled to lie flat again and sighed. This ward was supposed to be for the lightly wounded, and the atmosphere was relatively relaxed—but lately, beds in the critical-care ward were getting tight, and turnover in the light-casualty ward was fast, so beds had to be "borrowed." The feverish, delirious comrade in the next bed weighed on Bi Cheng's heart—though he was deeply ashamed to admit it.
"What's the matter? You're always sighing." Old Zhang lay half-inclined on his pillow, looking over at him.
"Nothing." Bi Cheng shook his head, trying to chase away his less-than-noble thoughts. "Brother, I'm not as easygoing as you. I'm a cripple now—can't go back to the battlefield."
He had worked in a factory before—a laborer. No education, couldn't learn a skill. After two or three years as a general hand, he figured he'd never get a wife at this rate, so he thought he'd join the army and make his fortune another way. When mobilization began, he enlisted.
After three months of basic training, he was supposed to be assigned to a unit—but the National Army was expanding rapidly; his cohort was sent to the Guangdong National Army and given sergeant stripes, posted as squad leaders to various squadrons.
Sergeant after only three months—Bi Cheng had been bursting with ambition, certain his chance for glory had come. But barely a month into Yangshan, he had lost his hand—a cripple! Never mind fighting for glory; even a simple laborer's job back home was out of reach now.
"Is that all?" Old Zhang curled his lip. "Look at the fellow across from us—also lost his left arm. When you were on the table, I heard it clear as day: you howled for a good quarter of an hour. That fellow had his arm sawn off below the elbow. He held the mangled flesh in his right hand the whole time; when they cut it off, he never made a sound. I reckon Lord Guan's bone-scraping cure was no tougher than that. The man next to him was a Ming prisoner, getting lead dug out of his leg, shrieking his lungs out. Our fellow was already annoyed. Surgery done, he jumps up, grabs his own severed arm, and whacks the prisoner on the ass like a thunderclap, yelling: 'Lout! If I hear you making a mess again, I'll stuff this arm down your worthless throat!'"
Bi Cheng felt even more embarrassed. In truth, he had been semi-conscious during the surgery, not fully in control of himself—and the orthopedic surgeon's dull scalpel had made it worse. Still, screaming like that during surgery was nothing to boast about. He cringed at the memory.
Perhaps seeing Bi Cheng's discomfort, Old Zhang chuckled, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. "If you've got a mind to serve the Council, there's no shortage of places for you. Besides, the Council won't short you on your disability pay. It may not be enough for a wife, but it'll fill your belly. Think of the brothers lying on Cuigang Hill—you're doing better by a mile!"
(End of Chapter)