“It’s okay,” Nelson answers pushing up and hopping over to the window to look. He uses a chair to support himself and stares out the glass, then he hops back to bed. “I guess I could use a Bayer. It would help some. Wake me if there’s anything I can do, Nurse Becky.”
There is nothing like waiting for imminent calamity. I run over all I have done and consider my skills. I really don’t think I am qualified to run triage at a disaster site. Not only am I not a physician, I’m scared. My way of handling it would be for all of us to get in the trucks and get the hell out of here, but I’m sure Wolfe wouldn’t think of it. The camp is his responsibility and he is a warrior, not Chicken Little like me.
While I kill time, I pace the clinic, investigate Colonel Milliken’s office, and then return to the porch, where the setting sun has turned the billowing smoke clouds bloodred.
41
Burn
At first I don’t hear the sound of the motor coming toward the clinic. The wind is that loud. It’s the headlights piercing through smoke that alert me. Boodean and our ambulance! Quickly, I look over our meager supplies and rehearse what I know about burn injury.
If the burns are only red, like sunburn, cover them with cool cloths. They will heal in four days and leave no scars.
If the burns are partial thickness with blisters, we must protect them with cool cloths, being careful not to disturb the eruptions. Hydrating the patient is important, with a little salt water, but only in very small amounts because you don’t want the patient to vomit.
If the burns are full thickness, going right through the skin, and covering much of the body, the patient is critical and may go into shock. Many won’t make it.
The truck bumps to a stop.
“Becky!” a hoarse voice cries, as a man dressed in a filthy CCC uniform with a blue bandanna tied around his mouth and nose staggers into the waiting room. “It’s me, Boodean.” He carries the body of another man who also has a bandanna over his face. The patient’s pants have been burned off and the skin on his legs is blistered and black. He wears a familiar Elgin watch.
“My God. It’s the captain! What happened?” The victim groans as I try to absorb some of his weight and we half drag him into the infirmary.
“It was terrible.” Boodean pulls off his mask. “I found Captain Wolfe staggering down the road with Drake’s body over his shoulders. Before he passed out he told me he’d driven up to the fire tower to bring Trustler down, but found the corpsman collapsed on the trail, overcome by smoke and badly burned.
“It’s hell out there, Miss Becky. The fire is spreading and trees are crashing over the road so that Captain Wolfe had to abandon the truck and come down by foot.”
“Drake Trustler, where is he? Still in the ambulance?” I stand up and head for the door, but Boodean grabs my arm and won’t let go.
“Becky, don’t. Drake’s gone. We have to concentrate on Captain Wolfe.”
I can hear Mrs. Ross sobbing in the other room. “No!” she says over and over. “No!” She had become quite close to Drake when he was her assistant.
“Are you sure?” Tears come to my eyes and I don’t try to hide them. “Drake was trying so hard to get well, to get over his lung problems.”
Boodean looks straight at me. “He was trying to get down the mountain to alert us about the fire. He died a hero. That’s what’s important.”
“What happened to Loonie? I thought he was with Captain Wolfe.”
“He was planning to go up with him, but the captain ordered him to stay behind and fight the blaze. The trench is halfway down to the creek, but the fire is moving fast. Can you take care of Wolfe alone? I have to get the men from the kitchen to go back and help. We need everyone!” He stops to get a drink of water from the bucket.
“Do you think we should send a couple of the corpsmen out in a truck to try to get to a telephone? Mrs. Stone’s farm is only twenty minutes away.”
“The flames are fifty-feet high, Becky. They’re fanned by the wind so they flatten out, then swoop to the earth and catch on the dry underbrush. The boys would never make it. They’d be blown off the road or the gasoline in the truck would explode. If I ever wondered what hell would be like, I know now!”
Terror
“Mrs. Ross, can you help me?” I call. “The first thing we must do is get the rest of the captain’s burned clothing off.”
“Oh, honey, I don’t think I can.” The poor lady wipes her eyes with her wet hanky, and peeks through her fingers as if trying to make the vision of the scorched captain go away. “He was such a nice man. They both were.”
“Don’t say was, Mrs. Ross. Drake is gone, but the captain’s still alive. Just get over here and help me! This probably won’t be the only burn victim we’ll get tonight.”
“I can help.” It’s Snake sitting up on his cot.
I give up on Mrs. Ross for a minute. “Here, Snake, I’ll get you a chair and you cut the rest of his trousers off. Be very gentle. I’ll take off his boots. Look at the leather soles! They’re almost burned through!”
When I first see the brave captain’s legs, I let out a long sigh. From the top of his boots to the top of his knees his skin is black and peeling. His upper thighs have a mass of blisters and his hands too. His face isn’t so bad and neither is the back of his legs or his trunk.
I share what I know with Snake. “The first rule of thumb, when assessing burn injury is . . . if more than thirty percent of the body is covered in burns, the patient will lose too much fluid and go into shock, so our task is to try to keep that from happening.” Wolfe moans and I give him a few drops of laudanum. “If he makes it though the night, we must worry about infection. This will be a close one.”
“Hello! Hello!” Mrs. Ross is on the shortwave radio again, cranking away. If only the wind would calm down, she might be able to make a connection. “Can anyone hear me?! This is CCC Camp White Rock. Dammit! Pick up! We have a wildfire here and we need help!”
Snake and I look at each other, and though our situation is dire, we can’t help but smile. To my knowledge, no one has ever heard Mrs. Ross swear before.
I call the panicked woman over. “Mrs. Ross, I want you to run to the kitchen for sugar.” She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “When you come back I’ll show you how to feed the captain saline-sugar water with a dropper. We want to get a cup in the captain every hour,” I explain. “With so much of his skin gone, he’s losing his life fluids.” The secretary bustles off, happy to have a job that doesn’t involve looking at a scorched body.
Outside, the sky is crimson, a towering inferno. Sparks whirl up as another pine explodes and the blaze takes flight like a flock of red birds. I notice my breathing is way too fast.
Terror, the word comes to me. We are afraid, but the fire is afraid too and is fleeing the men across the mountain.
Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
When we hear the horn blast the second time, we are ready. Snake can’t do much lifting, but I’ve found him a crutch and he’s fixed another cot with clean sheets and a pillow. Mrs. Ross is still feeding the captain fluids drop by drop.
This time, Boodean brings back three patients, but thankfully they are all ambulatory, another burn victim, a second fellow with a dangling arm, and a third, Loonie Tinkshell, who just needs to lie down because he can’t catch his breath.
“It’s terrible out there, Miss Becky,” Loonie pants. “Hotter than Hades. . . . Fire jumped the creek . . . burning across the fields. . . .” He gulps air two or three times, just to get through one sentence. “You’re going to need more cots. I’ll go to the dorms. Get you some more blankets and pillows.”
“Loonie, just rest. Just stop talking and rest. Someone else can get the pillows. Here, take a drink of water and lie down.”
“He’s right, though,” Boodean tells us as he stays to get the three men situated. “It’s hell out there and the fire is spreading. If the boys can just get the trench finished in time, we can save the camp. The
n we’ll just keep beating the flames with wet burlap sacks if they try to skip over.” He talks about the fire as if it had an evil mind of its own and he doesn’t say what will happen if they can’t get the trench finished.
“Unfortunately, we’ve lost contact with Lou Cross and his crew. It’s too dark and too crazy to do a roll call, and no one has seen them since morning. On the other hand, we got a couple of people coming in from Liberty the back way. Had to go all the way to Delmont to get in here. Apparently, one of your emergency calls got through to Sheriff Hardman, Mrs. Ross. . . . Gotta keep moving.” Before I can say good-bye, the medic rushes out the door.
“We need music,” Mrs. Ross says, and at first I think she’s lost her marbles. “Something to soothe us. The one thing the superintendent didn’t take with him was his Victrola. How about Count Basie, ‘Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea’?”
The melody is a nice touch and between feeding the captain the sugar-water and restarting the recording, Mrs. Ross now has a full-time job. She even manages to make us some coffee.
I give the man with the dislocated arm a sling, some Bayers, and a pallet on the floor. Then I turn to the burn victim. Phil Otter is his name, though I have no time to write any nurse notes.
“A burning branch was about to crash right down on the three of us and I reached up my hands to toss it aside,” he recounts. You can tell he is proud of his action. Snake, my new assistant, gently cleans and dresses his blistered hands. Then we wait, wondering who the reinforcements could be.
An hour passes on the cuckoo clock and it’s now ten P.M. Captain Wolfe moans in his opiate-induced sleep, and I sit down next to him to take the saline-sugar dropper from Mrs. Ross. The water is all we have to keep him alive.
I have always wanted to touch the scars on the captain’s handsome face and I do now, touching them with one finger. “If you make it until morning and we can get you to the hospital there’s hope,” I whisper as my tears fall on his pillow. “As bad as it is, there’s hope. I know you’re a fighter. Hold on.”
Reinforcements
“Incoming!” Snake announces, sounding like a soldier in a war movie. He’s referring to the sound of a horn blaring over the music.
“Ready.” I stand up and shake myself to get the blood stirring. “Mrs. Ross, take over Captain Wolfe’s drops.”
This time an extra man is with Boodean, the Reverend Miller, and the two of them assist a young carrottop over to a chair and give him a wooden box to support his foot. “It’s his leg, maybe a break,” Boodean tells me. “How’s the captain?”
“Still with us. Mrs. Ross is trying to keep him hydrated. . . . Hello, Reverend. I’m amazed anyone could get in here.”
“Nice to see you again, Miss Becky,” the preacher says, tipping his hat. “Brought Daniel Hester and some of our faithful from Hazel Patch in the hack, even a couple of the homeless fellows I found under the bridge over the Hope, anyone I could round up in a hurry. Had to come clear around through Delmont. Left the recruits with the CCC men, but I’d be no good fighting fire. I’ve had lung problems since I was a boy.” He rolls up his sleeves and looks around for something to do. “Figured if nothing else, I could help around here or ride with the ambulance man.”
“We got to get back,” Boodean says, looking out the window and pulling on the pastor’s arm. “I think we’ve almost got the fire licked but no one can find Lou Cross and his men. I’m getting worried.” Here Loonie Tinkshell sits up from his place on the floor.
“I’ll go look for him,” Loonie says. “I’m fine now, right, Nurse?”
Stepping forward, I listen to the mechanic’s heart and lungs. “You’re fine. Just be careful!”
“Need some joe, Boodean?” Mrs. Ross holds a mug of steaming coffee.
“Thanks.” The medic paces back and forth, his hands around the cup to keep them from trembling.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Just tired.”
“I mean it. Are you okay?” He shakes his head no. “Then stay here. Loonie and the Reverend can make a few runs.”
Boodean looks at me hard and shakes his head no again. Then goes out the door.
Tourniquet
With Mrs. Ross’s help, I have five more pallets set up in the waiting area and I stand on the porch, nervously looking up at the cliffs that glow white against the scarlet sky. It’s then I remember that I forgot to ask Boodean where Drake Trustler’s body is. It shouldn’t be alone. I don’t want it to be alone, but there’s no time to think about that now.
The ambulance arrives with horn blaring again, followed in the distance by the wail of a siren. Boodean and Reverend Miller jump out of the cab and run around back. “We got a leg wound here! Awful mess. Hemorrhaging!” Boodean shouts as they carry in one of the cook’s crew, a copper-haired fellow I’ve seen in the kitchen.
“Hang in there, Rusty!” the Reverend pleads. “The Lord is with you.” Then turning to me he whispers, “He was run over by one of the CCC trucks. Driver backed right over him, felt the crunch, then pulled forward and drug him for thirty feet. Couldn’t see a damn thing in the smoke and confusion.”
Boodean’s face is white and the Reverend’s ash gray, and I instantly see why when I get a look at the injury. The foot at the end of Rusty’s leg is turned inward at a ninety-degree angle. Bones protrude through the torn flesh, the toes are mangled, and blood is spurting from a major artery in the ankle.
“Tourniquet,” I command, and when no one responds I pull on Snake’s pants. “Your belt! Your belt! We’ll use it for a tourniquet.” I’m sure my eyes are wild. I haven’t seen this much blood since Patience abrupted, and if we don’t stop it soon the man will expire. Mrs. Ross covers her face and runs from the room.
“Get vitals, Boodean.” Outside, the sound of the siren gets louder, and I realize where I’ve heard it before. It’s Sheriff Hardman from Liberty.
Doors to the squad car slam and several people enter the infirmary, but I don’t look up. I’m too busy tightening the belt, trying to put pressure on the boy’s leg just above where the torn flesh begins. As hard as I pull the belt, the bleeding doesn’t slow.
“Prepare for surgery,” a familiar voice says. It’s Dr. Blum.
Gates of Hell
In our little clinic, the night from hell is just beginning. Around nine P.M., a violent rainstorm moves in, which dampens the flames, but the thunder is so loud and close to the camp that it rattles the window glass. Lightning jabs the still-smoldering mountainside and then in the middle of everything the camp’s generator goes out.
“Shit!” curses Blum, a needle and needle holder in one hand. He waits, thinking the power will come back on, looking at me over his cloth surgical mask across the superintendent’s desk, our makeshift operating table. The power doesn’t come back on.
Snake has to hobble out into the storm on his crutch to look for a kerosene lantern, but it takes at least five minutes before he gets back, looking like a drowned rat. Meanwhile, I have both gloved hands deep in Rusty’s torn flesh, trying to reduce the open fracture and Sheriff Hardman is mopping up blood. “Good thing I got you here when I did, Doc.”
“Praise the Lord!” That’s the pastor, who helps Snake through the door, grabs the Coleman, and lights it.
“Had to threaten him with bodily harm,” the lawman chuckles.
“That’s not quite the whole story,” mumbles Blum.
“Had to pull my gun and order him to gather up his doctor stuff and get in the squad car.”
“That’s not quite it,” Blum says again. “I told you I would come, didn’t I?” He silently holds out his gloved hand as if I will know what he wants. I take a guess and hand over the scalpel. “The part about the gun is true, though, and you enjoyed it, Hardman.”
This is more than Blum has said in the last year, and he sounds almost like a regular Joe, but the banter doesn’t last. Two trucks pull up, horns blaring, and Daniel Hester slams through the door.
“Head traum
a and burns,” he announces. “One of the CCC fellows found a colored boy under a fallen pine. It was so dark, he almost stepped on him. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
“Boodean!” I look away from the surgical field. “Where’s Boodean?” The medic pokes his head through the door, tears in his eyes and I fear he is about to unravel. “Boodean, help the vet. Get the patient’s vitals. Try some smelling salts on yourself.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Daniel,” Blum says over his shoulder. “I’ve stopped the bleeding here. . . . Suture and needle holder, Nurse . . .”
When I look down, Rusty’s foot is not part of his body.
42
Afterburn
“In the end we saved many, most of them really.” I’m standing with Patience, the day after the fire, in the camp laundry room, our makeshift morgue, looking down at the dead. “We’ve already transferred ten men to the hospital in Torrington,” I tell her. “One of the first was Captain Wolfe; but he died in transport.”
“Oh, Becky. I’m so sorry!” Patience reaches for me, expecting me to cry, but I am done with tears and am only numb. When I touch my own skin I am numb. Even my bones are numb.
“Thirty-five were treated in the camp’s infirmary for everything from heat exhaustion to burns to broken bones. Three of those required surgery. It was amazing to watch Dr. Blum. The whole time the electricity was out, he moved among the wounded and the burned in the kerosene light like a Civil War surgeon. You heard one of the boys, Rusty, lost his foot? It was too mangled and Blum had to amputate. I’ve never seen so much death and horror.”
I am staring at the row of corpses lined up on the concrete floor wrapped in white sheets like babies. Patience has cared for them all. I offered to help, but she told me to go back to the clinic and take care of the living.
The Reluctant Midwife Page 31
