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Page 24
He was followed by a man from whose chest I removed a filthy,
blood-sodden mass of padding. I observed that his breathing was becoming
weaker and weaker. The an�sthetist shouted:
"Fetch the oxygen--look sharp!"
An orderly brought a long black cylinder along, but the rubber tubing
was knotted in a bundle and several seconds passed before it could be
disentangled. At last the end of the tube was pushed into the mouth of
the dying man. The tap of the cylinder was turned on, but there was no
sound of gas running through. The an�sthetist glared angrily around and
shouted: "Corporal Chamberlain!"
The Corporal came and the an�sthetist thundered:
"Go and get a new cylinder--this one's empty--your damned carelessness
again--look sharp about it."
It was the Corporal's business to see that the cylinder in the theatre
was always full. He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the cupboard
in which the reserve cylinders were kept, but he could not find it. He
walked out and searched in the shed opposite the theatre. He came back
without it.
"Hurry up for God's sake--the man's dying--it'll be too late in a
minute!"
He looked round the theatre with affected deliberation, for the angry
shouting of the an�sthetist had wounded his pride. At last he found the
key on a shelf. He unlocked the cupboard, fetched out a new cylinder,
and placed it beside the table. The tube was pushed into the open mouth,
the tap was turned, there was a rush of gas. But it was too late. The
man was dead.
"D'you see what you've done?" shouted the infuriated an�sthetist.
"Here's a man dead through your neglect. Don't you bloody well let it
occur again, else I'll put you under close arrest and have you up for a
court martial."
The Corporal walked sulking out of the theatre and muttered something
about a "bloody fuss."
One of the orderlies went to the door and shouted:
"Another slab for the mortuary!"--Those who died on the operating tables
were facetiously called "slabs."
Two bearers came in with a stretcher. The corpse was pushed on to it and
carried away to the mortuary. There it would be sewn up in an army
blanket, ready for burial. And then a telegram would be sent to a wife
or mother, informing her that her husband or son had "died of wounds
received in action."
There was amputation after amputation. The surgeons were tired of
cutting off legs and arms--it was "so monotonous and uninteresting," as
one of the sisters put it.
Then there came a little variety in the shape of a man with a bullet
wound in his throat. He breathed quite normally, but when the bandage
was removed, his breath rushed bubbling through the aperture and
bespattered all who stood around with little drops of blood. "A most
unpleasant case." He was quickly replaced, however, by another who lay
on a stretcher white and motionless. His tunic had been unbuttoned. His
shirt had been pulled loosely over a big, round object that appeared to
be lying on his belly. The surgeon drew back the shirt. The round object
was still concealed by a dirty piece of lint. The surgeon lifted it off
and revealed a huge coil of bluish red entrail bulging out through a
frightful gash in the abdomen.
"Here, Crawford, here's something for you!"
Captain Crawford was an abdominal specialist, at least he was
particularly interested in abdominal cases, or "belly cases" as they
were humorously termed. Captain Wheeler, who had called him, was
interested in knee cases. Captain Maynard, who was working at the far
end of the theatre, had a fondness for head cases.
"Such a delightful tummy, isn't it?" said Captain Wheeler, who spoke in
the affected drawl of our public schools and universities.
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