Choices

Choices

The hot, unsanitary, dusty operating tent was a world away from the tiled, clean and cool theatres that Rich was used to at home. He had signed up as a voluntary surgeon after watching one too many news stories about the wars that seemed to occur on a perpetual basis. He wanted to make a difference, so he gave up golfing holidays in Scotland and Southern France and instead flew out to whatever conflict had flared up during his leave.

This particular war zone was particularly horrific, and as usual it seemed to be the civilians who had drawn the short straw. He had got used to the pathetically equipped hospitals and aid stations, with ever dwindling supplies, and outdated and dirty tools. But the breath still caught in his throat when he saw the grievous harm caused to people. It wasn’t all pervasive; if that had been the case he would have become jaded by its incessancy. It caught him unawares, out of the corner of his vision – the empty stare of an emaciated child, or a weeping mother clutching her dead baby.

The operating tent was little more than an alcove attached to a larger tent, where a nun, the last surviving from a monastery nearby, worked constantly. Rich’s assistant, Thom, as a fully trained nurse was more qualified to deliver aid to the sick and injured. What Thom couldn’t do was provide healing of a spiritual kind. The nun moved from bed to bed, comforting each patient, giving them a thin slop with a wooden spoon. Rich had wondered whether she should wash the spoon, in case of contamination, before realising that if they didn’t contract something from that, there would be a hundred other ways.

Most would not survive. Thom told him that the nun was infected with something too, she would die soon.

Rich was preparing to operate on a twelve year old. She had stepped on a homemade landmine. It had simply been a bullet mounted on a nail. The bullet had shattered her ankle and travelled the whole way up her leg, before lodging itself in her knee. Her leg had been ruined.

He was wiping her brow with a cloth, smiling and trying to reassure her when a commotion caught his attention. Two fighters were forcing their way into the cramped ward, carrying another on a stretcher. A fourth fighter was arguing with Thom, waving his rifle threateningly. Rich rushed over, and the unencumbered fighter turned to him.

“You,” he said, “you help this man, treat him. He was shot, treat him. Now.” He gestured with his rifle as he spoke, pointing at the man in the stretcher. He was clutching his side, groaning in pain.

“Treat him, or he die, then you die.”

The fighter left them no choice.

They took him into the operating tent, and put him on the slab. Rich tried to find an exit wound, but there was none.

“We’ll have to operate,” he said to Thom “get Nassam.”

Rich stripped off the man’s jacket. He noticed a roaring lion emblem on the shoulder. Blood covered the man’s torso, Rich shoved a bandage against to plug the wound.

Thom reappeared with the anaesthetist. Nassam looked at the fighter with the gun, then the man on the slab, and began to prepare the syringe. Meanwhile Rich turned to the fighter. He looked more placid now he thought that his comrade was safe. Rich gestured to the bigger tent, and lead the fighter out.

“He ok?” he asked. Rich sighed, then shrugged.

“It is bad, it will take time,” and the last thing Rich wanted was a trio of gun-toting guerrillas in the hospital. He could see the fear in the eyes of those as they stared paralysed at the incomers. Rich knew why.

“Come back tomorrow, see him then.”

“But…”

“Look, there’s nothing you can do now. Leave me to treat him.”

“Ok, I come back tomorrow. Dawn.”

With that, the fighter turned, nodded to his companions and they left. Rich re-entered the operating tent. Nassam had just removed the needle from the man’s arm. They didn’t wait for him to go out cold, though he already seemed pretty far gone.

Thom wiped the wound with watered-down antiseptic, as Rich selected a scalpel.

“Did you see the lion?” Thom asked. Nassam went to deal with the syringe, Thom and Rich took up their places around the wounded man.

“On their arms? Yes.”

“This guy’s probably responsible for half the people in this hellhole.”

“Probably is.”

“He’s stopped breathing.”

Rich looked up at Thom.

“We wanted to make a difference, Rich.”

“If I wanted to kill, I would have joined the army.”

But Rich didn’t make any move to revive the man. He just looked at the man, unconscious, one of the most feared and dangerous fighting men in the world, suddenly helpless. He felt for the man’s pulse. If he had been in a theatre at home, the cardiograph would be issuing a constant high pitched wail. Home seemed even further away than before.

Nassam re-entered the tent.

“We couldn’t revive him,” said Rich.

“I know,” the pair looked up in surprise, “I gave him a double dose, he should have died within a couple of minutes.”

Rich stared into Nassam’s unflinching gaze; the anaesthetist’s eyes were cold. The three of them stood in silence, each in their own thoughts.

“You should have said you were going to kill him,” said Thom.

“Why?” asked Nassam, looking quizzical.

“Then we could have saved the double dose of anaesthetic for the next two people.”