Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第13部分

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Amazed；　Larn　saw　a　battle…scarred　sergeant　in　a　grey…black　greatcoat　stride　past　him　leading　a
ragtag　band　of　Vardans　in　a　counter…charge　against　the　orks。　Moving　at　a　slow　walk；　firing　from　the
hip　with　shotguns；　lasguns　and　flamers　blazing；　they　advanced　towards　the　oncoming　orks；　taking　a
gruesome　toll　of　the　enemy　with　every　step　towards　them。　While　before　them　orks　screamed　and
died；　the　sergeant　led　his　men　forward　with　bullets　and　lasbeams　flying　all　around　him；　his　pace
never　faltering；　his　voice　a　clear　beacon　of　authority　among　the　confusion　of　battle。　Watching　the
sergeant　lead　his　men　from　the　front；　his　every　gesture　calm　and　unafraid；　Larn　found　himself
wondering　if　one　of　the　long…dead　saints　of　the　Imperium　had　somehow　regained　human　form　and
now　walked　among　them。　The　sergeant　seemed　immortal。　Unkillable。　Like　a　hero　from　the　tales
they　told　in　the　scholarium。
A　legend；　leading　his　men　to　victory。
“Forward！”　the　sergeant　yelled；　the　counterattack　gaining　momentum　as　every　man　still　alive　in
the　trenches　gathered　to　advance　beside　him。　“Keep　on　firing。　Forward　and　advance！”
Following　the　sergeant’s　lead　the　advance　continued；　the　constant　fire　of　the　Vardan　guns　and
the　slow　measured　pace　of　their　progress　seemed　every　bit　as　relentless　and　unstoppable　as　had　the
orks’　charge　earlier。　Until；　wilting　before　the　remorseless　ferocity　of　the　Vardans’　attack；　the　orks
did　something　which　Larn　had　never　thought　he　would　live　to　see。
They　turned　and　ran。
Watching　the　surviving　orks　run　back　towards　their　lines；　Larn　slowly　became　aware　of　a　brief
hush　falling　across　the　battlefield　as　the　Vardans’　advance　halted　and　they　stopped　firing。　Soon；　as　it
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became　plain　the　orks’　attack　was　ended；　new　sounds　broke　the　silence：　the　cries　of　wounded　men；
the　shouts　of　their　comrades　calling　for　a　medic；　the　noise　of　nervous　laughter　and　disbelieving
oaths　as　other　men　found　they　were　still　very　much　alive。　Hearing　those　sounds；　Larn　felt　the
tension　abruptly　leave　him　as　the　realisation　hit　him　that　he　had　survived。　Still　kneeling　over　the
body　of　the　dead　gretchin；　he　looked　down　at　the　thing’s　rained　face　in　with　sudden　queasiness；
afraid　he　was　going　to　vomit。　Then；　he　saw　a　shadow　fall　across　him　as　a　nearby　Guardsman　came
to　stand　beside　him。
“You　must　be　a　new　fish？”　a　cynical　voice　asked　him。　“One　of　the　new　groxlings　to　the
slaughter　they　sent　us　in　the　lander？　I　think　this　belongs　to　you。”
Looking　up；　Larn　found　himself　staring　at　an　ugly　dwarfish　Vardan　with　a　shaven　head　and　a
mouthful　of　stained　and　crooked　teeth。　The　Vardan　was　holding　a　lasgun　in　each　hand；　one　of　which
Larn　recognised　sheepishly　as　his　own　gun　—　the　same　weapon　he　had　lost　earlier。
“Here；　new　fish；”　the　rant　said；　giving　him　a　sardonic　broken…toothed　smile　as　he　tossed　the
lasgun　towards　him。　“Next　time　you　need　to　kill　a　gretch；　you　might　try　using　this。”
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CHAPTER　SEVEN
13：39　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
The　Field　Station　—　Lessons　in　Futility；　Parts　One　&　Two　—　Friends　&　Heroes　Awaiting　Disposal
—　Welcome　to　the　902ND　Vardan　—　Corporal　Vladek　and　the　Distribution　of　Resources　—
Meeting　Sergeant　Chelkar　and　an　Addition　to　Davir’s　Woes
Pausing　for　a　moment　to　catch　his　breath　while　he　waited　for　the　stretcher　bearers　to　bring　another
patient；　Surgeon…Major　Martus　Volpenz　was　surprised　to　realise　how　inured　he　had　become　to　the
sound　of　men　screaming。　Around　him；　the　walls　of　the　apothecarium　field　station　reverberated　with
it　constantly。　He　could　hear　men　shouting；　begging；　moaning；　shrieking；　muttering　profane　oaths
and　whispering　half…remembered　prayers。　Not　for　the　first　time；　ever　mindful　that　it　was　his　calling
to　alleviate　the　pain　of　others；　the　surgeon…major　looked　about　him　at　the　place　where　he　practised
his　craft　and　felt　despair。
To　a　man　less　accustomed　to　it；　the　dimly　lit　interior　of　the　field　station’s　main　operating　theatre
might　have　been　mistaken　for　a　scene　from　hell。　Along　one　wall　of　the　station；　hundreds　of　severely
wounded　men　lay　in　litters　stacked　four　men　high　on　a　series　of　metal　racks。　Against　the　other　wall　a
dozen　exhausted　surgeons　worked　feverishly　to　clear　the　most　urgent　cases　from　tables　that　stank
with　the　blood　that　stained　every　surface　of　the　floors　and　walls。　For　each　man　they　healed；　a　dozen
more　men　waited　amid　the　suffocating　stink　of　blood　and　pus　and　death；　desperately　wailing　and
pleading　for　help　in　a　cacophony　of　suffering　that　never　reached　its　end。
“Stomach　wound；”　his　surgical　assistant　Jaleal　said；　breaking　into　his　thoughts。　“He’s　been　given
morphia；”　he　added；　checking　the　treatment　notification　tag　on　the　patient’s　ankle　as　the　stretcherbearers
lifted　the　unconscious　form　of　a　wounded　Guardsman　onto　the　operating　table　before　them。
“Two　doses。”
Taking　a　pair　of　scissors；　Jaleal　removed　the　tag；　before　cutting　away　the　Guardsman’s　tunic　in
blood…encrusted　strips　to　reveal　the　wound　hidden　beneath　it。　Then；　taking　a　wet　cloth　from　a　bucket
at　the　foot　of　the　table；　he　washed　the　worst　of　the　blood　away　from　the　edges　of　the　wound。
“Looks　like　a　through　and　through；”　he　said。　“From　the　size　of　the　wound　I’d　say　an　ork　gun　was
the　culprit。　The　blood’s　dark。　Looks　like　his　liver’s　been　punctured。”
“Give　him　some　ether　somnolentus。”　Volpenz　said；　taking　a　scalpel　from　a　tray　of　instruments
nearby　as　he　stepped　to　the　side　of　table。　“Standard　dosage。”
“We　have　none；”　Curlen；　his　other　assistant；　said。　“We　used　what　was　left　on　the　last　patient。”
“What　about　the　other　anaesthetics？”　Volpenz　said。　“The　nitrous　oxide？”
“Gone　as　well；”　Jaleal　said。　“If　he　wakes　up　we’ll　just　have　to　hold　him　down。”
“At　least　tell　me　we　have　some　blood　plasma　left？”　Volpenz　said。　“If　I　have　to　go　digging
around　this　man’s　insides　in　search　of　a　wound　in　his　liver　he’s　going　to　bleed　like　a　stuck　pig。”
“Not　a　drop；”　Jaleal　said；　shrugging　in　helplessness。　“Remember　the　sucking　chest　wound
twenty　minutes　ago？　He　got　the　last　of　it。”
“How　much　blood　is　there　in　the　overspill　bag；　Jaleal？”　Volpenz　asked。
Ducking　his　head　under　the　table；　Jaleal　checked　the　contents　of　the　transparent　bag　underneath
it　designed　to　catch　the　blood　bleeding　out　of　the　patient　as　it　oozed　along　the　disposal　gutters　set　in
the　table’s　sides。
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“About　half　a　litre；”　he　said；　pulling　the　bag　up　from　beneath　the　table。　“Maybe　three…quarters。”
“All　right；”　Volpenz　said。　“Replace　that　bag　with　a　new　one　and　use　the　contents　of　the　one
you’ve　got　to　autosanginuate　him。”
“You　want　to　transfuse　him　with　his　own　blood？”　Jaleal　said。　“There’s　barely　enough　in　here　to
keep　a　dog　alive；　never　mind　a　man。”
“There’s　no　other　choice；”　Volpenz　said；　leaning　forward　with　a　practiced　hand　to　make　the　first
incision。　“He’ll　die　anyway　if　this　wound　isn’t　seen　to。　Now；　look　sharp；　gentlemen。　We’re　going　to
have　to　do　this　fast；　before　he　bleeds　to　death。”
Cutting　an　incision　to　open　the　wound；　Volpenz　quickly　peeled　back　the　skin　around　it　and　fixed
a　clamp　in　place　to　keep　it　open。　Then；　while　beside　him　Jaleal　used　his　cloth　to　mop　at　the　blood
welling　in　the　wound　cavity；　Volpenz　searched　desperately　for　the　source　of　the　bleeding。　It　was
hopeless。　There　was　so　much　blood　in　the　wound　he　could　hardly　see　a　thing。
“Vital　signs　are　weak；”　Curlen　said；　his　fingers　at　the　man’s　neck　to　feel　his　pulse。　“We’re　losing
him。”
“Lift　his　legs　up；　Jaleal。　It’ll　send　more　blood　to　his　heart；”　Volpenz　said。　“I　only　need　a　few
more　seconds。　There！　I　think　I’ve　found　it。　He’s　got　a　tear　in　the　main　artery　leading　to　the　liver。”
Pushing　his　hands　deep　into　the　wound　cavity　Volpenz　clamped　the　bleeding　artery　shut。　Only　to
find　his　hopes　frustrated　as；　abruptly；　the　cavity　began　to　fill　with　blood　once　more。
“Damnation！　There　must　be　another　bleeder！　Curlen；　how’s　he　doing？”
“I　can’t　find　a　pulse　anymore；　sir。　We　could　try　to　manually　resuscitate　him？”
“No；”　Volpenz　said；　throwing　his　bloody　scalpel　down　on　the　instrument　tray　in　frustration。　“It
wouldn’t　do　any　good。　He’s　bled　out。　The　round　probably　hit　a　rib　and　caused　bone　fragments　to
perforate　his　liver　in　a　dozen　places。　Clear　the　table。　We　can’t　save　this　one。”
Grabbing　a　piece　of　discarded　cloth　to　clean　his　hands；　Volpenz　stepped　away　from　the　table；
pausing　only　to　glance　at　the　dead　Guardsman　as　Curlen　signalled　for　the　stretcher　bearers　to　take
him　away。　How　old　was　he；　he　thought。　He　looks　to　be　in　his　forties；　but　that　means　nothing　here。
Broucheroc　has　a　way　of　aging　a　man。　He　might　only　be　in　his　early　thirties；　even　late　twenties。
Then；　as　they　lifted　the　dead　man’s　body　from　the　table；　Volpenz　noticed　an　old　scar　in　the　patient’s
side。　He’s　been　wounded　before；　he　thought。　And　patched　up。　I　wonder；　was　it　my　work　or　someone
else。　Doesn’t　matter　now；　I　suppose。　Whoever　saved　the　poor　bastard’s　life　before；　there　was　no
saving　him　this　time。
Sighing；　he　turned　away　to　gaze　once　more　at　the　confines　of　the　operating　room　around　him。　As
he　did；　he　realised　how　little　good　could　be　done　there　for　the　dying　and　suffering　men　who　came　to
the　field　station　day　after　day。　It’s　not　the　war　or　even　the　orks　that　kills　most　of　them；　he　thought。
It’s　the　shortages。　We’re　short　of　anaesthetics；　antibiotics；　plasma；　even　the　most　basic　of　medical
equipment。　Short　it　seems　of　everything　except　pain；　death　and　futility。　Here　in　Broucheroc；　these
things　at　least　are　never　in　short　supply。
Then；　as　he　made　to　throw　away　the　cloth　he　had　used　to　clean　his　hands；　Volpenz　noticed
something　was　written　on　it。　Looking　at　it　more　closely；　he　saw　there　was　a　name　stencilled　in　the
cloth。　Repzik。　Abruptly；　he　realised　the　cloth　must　have　come　from　the　dead　Guardsman’s　tunic　—
one　of　the　pieces　Jaleal　had　cut　away　earlier　to　reveal　the　man’s　wound。　Repzik；　Volpenz　thought
sadly。　So　that　was　what　his　name　was。　Then；　just　as　abruptly；　he　realised　that　it　made　no　difference。
Whatever　name　the　man　had　come　here　with；　he　did　not　need　it　now。
In　the　shadow　of　the　dugout　emplacements；　a　little　way　behind　the　trenches；　the　corpses　of　the　men
killed　in　the　last　hour…and…a…half　had　been　piled　in　a　line　three　cadavers　deep。　Their　feet　bootless；
their　bodies　stripped　of　their　equipment；　some　with　faces　wrapped　in　concealing　cloth；　others　with
dead　features　left　naked　to　the　biting　cold：　all　of　them　laid　haphazardly　atop　each　other　like　so　many
logs　ready　for　the　burning。　Like　firewood；　Larn　thought　as　he　stood　gazing　down　on　the　dead　bodies
of　the　men　who　had　made　the　journey　with　him　from　Jumael　IV。　Men　he　had　known　and　liked。　Men
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who　had　crossed　the　unimaginable　distances　of　the　void　only　to　waste　their　lives　on　the　wrong
planet　and　in　the　wrong　campaign。　His　comrades；　now　reduced　to　nothing　more　than　a　temporary
landmark　in　the　unforgiving　and　war…torn　landscape　he　saw　all　about　him。　For　what？　To　Larn；　it
seemed　the　most　pointless　of　the　many　horrors　he　had　witnessed　already　in　this　desolate　place。　A
lesson　in　utter　futility。
Hearing　the　protesting　squeal　of　a　rusted　axle；　Larn　turned　to　see　four　bent…backed　old　women
bundled　in　ragged　layers　of　civilian　dress　pushing　an　empty　handcart　across　the　f