Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 18

“Try, Dutch. Please try,” he whispered again.

I nodded, and his face mirrored his relief, but my decision didn’t relieve my doubts. York, Patterson, and the Padre were all staring at me. Hope was all we had, and I hoped I’d made the right decision.

Looking at them, I finally said, “I’ll try…but let’s give it some time. Maybe the sea will flatten down a little. There is no way I can go digging for the bullet with this raft bobbing around.”

They nodded their agreement.

Crawling to the other end of the raft, I rummaged through the dead Jap’s belongings. The night before, I had stripped his dead body of all his worldly possessions before rolling his naked remains back into the sea. There was a pair of trousers, a shirt, an undershirt, boots and a cartridge belt. He must have lost his rifle to the sea, but hanging from the belt was his bayonet and scabbard, a cartridge pouch with two clips of ammunition. Most importantly, his canteen was still half-full of water. We’d each had a mouthful of it, the night before, and I figured if we were careful that we had enough for a couple more days. After that, God only knew what we would do for drinking water.

Reaching down, I removed the bayonet from its scabbard and examined it closely. The knife was fairly sharp, and pointed at the end. Using the backside of the cartridge belt like a razor strop, I began sharpening the blade even further. While my hands worked, my mind planned the procedure. If the bullet wasn’t too deep, maybe I could dislodge it with the point of the bayonet, though I had no way to suture up the wound if I removed it. Well, I could pack the hole with strips of cloth from the undershirt and then tie it down with other bandages made from the trousers. But what if the wound was deep? What if the raft moved while I had the knife deep inside his shoulder? I had no antiseptics, so what if he got an infection? I supposed I could use sea water to clean the knife, the wound and the bandages.

And what if we didn’t do anything? Would he die?

There were just too many ‘what ifs’ for comfort.

By mid-morning, the sea had calmed a little. With the sun getting hot, I decided it was time to try. Looking across to my mates, I gave instructions for York, Patterson, and the Padre to sit with their backs against the long side of the raft, and to lay Corporal Bates face-down across their laps. Before we started, I gave the Corporal a swig of sweet water and asked if he still wanted me to try. With a forced half-smile on his face, he nodded again.

“When you get him over your laps, hold on tight. I don’t want him flinching around when I have the knife in him.”

It took a few moments to get him laid out. He groaned with pain at the slightest movement of his upper body. Kneeling down in front of the men, I cut away the blood- and salt-stained rag the Corporal was using as a shirt. Using part of the Jap’s undershirt, I used sea water to wash away the dried blood so that I could get a better look at the entry hole.

The Padre started reciting Psalm Twenty-Three: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…I will fear no evil…”

Looking up at Jasper, I smiled and nodded. Using my finger, I probed around the wound again, and this time I thought I felt the bullet, close to the entry hole. Taking some rags, I wrapped the bayonet’s upper blade so that I could hold it. Using the pointed end, I slowly probed the opening.

The Corporal let out a groan, but his body did not move.

About an inch in, I found the bullet, lodged in what remained of his back muscle. Taking the knife, I cut small slits in the skin and muscle around the hole. With each slice, I heard him cry out with pain, but again his body didn’t move. With little or no blood coming from the wound, I probed with the knife at a small angle. Soon, I found the bullet’s pointed tip. Sliding my little finger down into the hole, I used it and the point of the knife to pull and drag the slug out.

Bates let out a loud scream, and then his whole body went limp.

Jesus, did I kill this kid?

“Does he have a pulse?” I shouted.

The Padre answered, “Dutch, he’s fine. I think he just passed out.”

Working fast, I packed the wound tightly with a slender twelve-inch strip of cloth to act as a wick, with one end hanging outside of the wound. Using other pieces of clothing, I bandaged the wound as best I could and tied the whole area off with the trousers. It wasn’t neat or pretty, but it was as good a job as I could do with the tools I had.

Letting my body fall back against the opposite rail of the raft, I asked, “How’s his pulse?”

“Strong and constant, thank the Lord,” replied the Padre.

The sight of these four pathetic souls reminded me of the blessings of life. It is so precious that we fight until death not to lose it. With my hands shaking with relief, all I could think was, Thank you, dear Lord, for guiding my hands and mind….