Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 15

…Tumbling into a hole with the world spinning around me, my body was pulled ever deeper into the abyss. The light of the sun with its warm rays on my face was my shroud, and the only sounds were that of the wind and a single white dove above. Falling into the next life, I looked forward to the peace. Scared but resigned I prayed, Oh Lord, let me go. But how could I let go? Not now. Not before the murky images of Colonel Hisachi’s ghastly deeds came into focus. My hatred for his memory was stronger than my fear of death….

“Dutch…Dutch, wake up.”

My eyes opened slowly as I was pulled back to reality, with all its ugly consequences. The sun was still low in the sky, and that white dove was a screaming seagull flying above the raft. The boat was rocking with the ocean swells, and it took me a moment to realize where and who I was.

“What’s up?” I finally stammered.

The Padre was in my face, or I should say Chaplain Captain Jasper Young of the 14^th Royal Australian Engineering Regiment. He outranked us all…but had no delusions about his role. He was our spiritual leader and looked to me for more practical leadership. And why not? He and the other men on the float had been in Japanese prison camps since early 1942. They were nothing more than skin and bones, and totally exhausted. The Padre had long ago realized that survival and hope made the best sermon for his flock.

“It’s Corporal Bates. I think he’s dying. Can you take a look at him?”

Nodding yes, I dragged my limp legs across the short, sea-swamped raft to where Bates was. Sergeant York and Private Patterson had Bates propped up between them, resting him against the side of the raft. Our little boat was like a cork, rolling and pitching with each ocean swell, causing sea spray to wash across all our faces.

Patterson was first to speak. “He took a bullet, last night, and didn’t tell us. He moaned all night and then this morning, when we found the wound, he stopped groaning and started shaking. If you look at his face, it looks like he’s dying. What do you think, Dutch?”

“Where did he get it?’ I asked.

“In the upper back, on the left side,” York replied.

As I looked down at Bates, he slowly opened his sunken eyes. His face was racked with pain, but there was still life in those eyes. He watched me as I moved closer.

“Can I take a look at that hole in your back?” I asked.

He blinked his eyes ‘yes’ and slowly moved his upper body over the lap of York. The back of his shabby shirt was stained with dried blood and salt water. Just a few inches below his shoulder, I could see the entry hole of the bullet. Taking my fingers, I probed around the wound and then tried to slide my little finger into the center, to see if the hole was open.

Bates wrenched with pain and let out a cry.

I stopped. From what I could tell, the bullet was deep, and close to his heart or lung. Reaching down, I helped Bates sit up again, with his right side resting against the raft.

All the Aussies were looking at me. Finally, the Padre asked, “What do you think, Dutch? Can you remove the bullet with the knife you got off that dead Nip last night?”

The knife I’d taken the previous night was a rifle bayonet, which was a far cry from a surgical scalpel. It was big and clumsy, and who knew how clean it was?

Turning to the guys, I answered, “I’m no doctor. The wound looks deep, and I think the bullet is close to his heart. The bayonet’s too big and awkward. He will die if I try.”

“He’ll bloody well die if we don’t try,” Patterson said, clearly anguished.

Turning from the guys, I looked again into Bates’s face. The sunlight was harsh, and drops of sea spray ran down his pale, hollow cheeks. There was wind in his matted brown hair but his eyes seemed brighter now, with more life than just a few minutes ago. He reached up and grabbed one of my hands, pulling me close to whisper, “Please try.”