"Billy…" he said, almost in a whisper. He didn't sound right.
"Kaz, you okay?" I asked as I knelt next to him. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. He was drenched in sweat and hot to the touch. His eyes were focused somewhere else.
"Billy, I waited for you." He was talking to me but looking straight through me.
"I know you did, buddy. I knew I could count on you. Now tell me, what's the matter?"
"My arm…" He looked down at his bandage, then his head rolled hack and his eyes shut. He was breathing in quick little gulps, as if he couldn't get enough air. The bandage was loose and hanging by a few pieces of tape. I lifted it up to get a look, and brushed my hand against his skin.
"Ahhhhh!" he gasped, sucking in air between clenched teeth. His eyes were wide open now. I grabbed for my flashlight and shined the light on his wound, careful not to touch him again. Even lifting the gauze seemed to cause him pain.
It looked awful. The skin was swollen and red all around the wound, filled with bumps or blisters, a few oozing dark brown matter. Kaz had waited for me, all right. Waited instead of going to get his arm checked like I'd told him to. It had been bothering him earlier in the evening, but he wanted to see me return safely.
I knew I had to do something, but I couldn't move. I stood frozen for seconds, maybe minutes. I felt horrible. The weight of Kaz's pain crushed the breath out of me. He had been shot rescuing me, and now he looked like death itself. Forcing myself to move, I pulled on my boots and put on my web belt, my. 45 in its holster. I tightened his sling as best I could, and knelt to pick him up. I was careful not to touch his bad arm. Fortunately, he had passed out. He was light as a feather. There really wasn't much to this little guy, and I was scared that whatever was wrong with his arm was going to get to his bum ticker, if it hadn't already. Kaz had suffered enough in this war, and mostly because of me. He would still be in London with Daphne if he hadn't gotten involved with my last investigation. I couldn't bring her back but I could do my best to keep him alive. And then, I'd do whatever it took to get him back to London.
I left a message for Harding and five minutes later I was in a jeep, hightailing it down the coast road, one hand on the wheel and the other on Kaz's shoulder to keep him from falling over.
"Hang on, buddy," I said, "we're almost there. Kaz, can you hear me?"
Nothing. I slammed the accelerator to the floor and skidded right at a sign for the 21st General Hospital. They were just setting up the main medical center for this area. I thought Kaz would stand a better chance here than at a field hospital or aid station, even if it wasn't fully operational yet. More doctors, more drugs, more of whatever he needed, I hoped.
I pulled up to a brick building that might have been a school or government offices before we moved in. In the courtyard stood trucks with red crosses painted on them. On either side were tents, more trucks, and piles of supplies under tarps. Even this late-or early-there were lights on and people moving around. The main door opened and a sergeant with a cigarette clamped between his lips pointed at me.
"Hey Mac, move that jeep outta here! Emergency vehicles only!"
"That's Lieutenant Mac to you, Sarge, and this is a goddamn emergency."
I jumped out of the jeep and ran around to Kaz's side. The sergeant came close enough to check my rank and look at Kaz. It didn't take him long to react. He tossed his butt, hollered some orders, and in a minute had Kaz on a stretcher and inside. He didn't bother apologizing for talking to an officer that way, which actually made me think he was okay.
We went down a long dark hallway into a well-lit room with empty beds along one wall, and a few doctors and nurses standing around.
"Hey Doc, got some business for you," the sergeant called out. The stretcher bearers transferred Kaz to a gurney as the doctor moved in for a look.
"Who brought him in?"
"This guy." The sergeant nodded his head toward me. He was dark-skinned with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows, and sounded like lie was from somewhere deep in Brooklyn. His three stripes sported a rocker, so he was a staff sergeant, and obviously in charge, even though the doctor was also a lieutenant. Second louies were a dime a dozen in this Army, but experienced NCOs were worth their weight in gold and they knew it. This one sure did. The doctor put his hand on Kaz's forehead as he listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope.
"When was he wounded, and when was the bandage last changed?"
"Just yesterday morning," I said, "and no one's looked at it since the medic fixed him up. It started bothering him earlier this evening. What's wrong, Doc?"
He didn't answer me as he snipped off the bandage and Kaz's sleeve. A nurse came over with a tray full of instruments and bandages. He wrinkled his nose as he pulled up the last layer of gauze.
"Jesus Christ! Wet gangrene."
I would have liked a better bedside manner, and maybe a doctor who looked a bit older. This one had barely a few years on me, which meant he didn't have a whole lot of experience. He had blond hair and was trying for a mustache, probably to make himself appear closer to thirty. He had the good teeth of the well-to-do and looked like he'd just stepped out of Harvard Square.
"Doc, are you sure?" I asked, "I didn't think you could get gangrene that quick-"
His eyes snapped up to look at me and give me the once-over. "And where did you get your medical degree?"
"Sorry, Doc…"
"And don't call me Doc. I didn't get a medical degree from Harvard to be called by a nickname. It's Doctor Sidney Dunbar, and your friend will be very sorry that he didn't get proper medical attention after that medic bandaged him up. Tight bandages in hot weather are a breeding ground for infection. They cut off the blood supply, allowing the Clostridium bacteria to thrive, leading to necrosis and the death of tissue."
"So how bad is-"
"Sergeant," the doctor interrupted, "we'll need the penicillin. Now. Nurse, move the patient into a room. You, get out of our way."
The last part was for me. They scurried off as a couple of orderlies appeared to wheel Kaz away. I stuck with him, and wondered what the hell penny cillin was, and why they couldn't at least offer him the dime cillin.
They moved Kaz into a hospital room. The concrete walls were whitewashed and you could see where the fresh paint had dribbled down to the bare wood floor. There was a damp, antiseptic smell in the room: cleansers, paint and dust all mixed together. It was furnished with three beds, nightstands, and a table with a white porcelain tray filled with instruments I didn't want to look at. They laid Kaz on the middle bed and left. His face was drained of color now. I sat on an empty bed, watching Kaz breathe and praying that each breath would be followed by another. Finally the sergeant came into the room, holding a small cardboard container.
"Don't mind Doctor Dunbar, Lieutenant," he said. "He's a little on edge."
"I'm glad he's so involved with his patients. I'm Lieutenant Billy Boyle, by the way." I stuck out my hand and he shook it.
"Joe Casselli. Don't think that Dunbar is a humanitarian. He's pissed off that we have to use some of this precious stuff."
He held up the container. In U.S. Army regulation stencil, it said PENICILLIN. FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY.
"What is that stuff?"
"It's what is going to save your friend's life," said Dunbar, striding into the room. "No thanks to you or whatever lame-brained unit you're with. Don't you know anything about first aid and hygiene?"
"We're attached to Headquarters," I said vaguely.
"Which Headquarters?" Dunbar asked as he signed a form Casselli held out for him.