OPORTO, 22nd May - The Medical Corps

[This will be where all action within the Army Medical Corps shall take place, a quarter of a mile behind the Serra Convent. All other threads can be found at the Battle Index.]

The 5th had moved forward with the rest of the Second Division before dawn, to be in their positions should a way of crossing the river be found. Philippa watched her father leave, a bright smile on her face, before returning to Grizelda. Now she was ready, her braids bound tightly round her head and confined in a plain white cap, and wearing an old dress - the one she wore at Vimeiro, she remembered, and it was now rather short, exposing her neat half-boots, but you did not want to drift around in something more suited for a ball - or even for one of the officers' impromptu hops.

She set off towards the place set aside for the surgeons' wagons. If the battle moved forward, she would follow. There was always a need for someone to roll bandages, and hold a wounded man's hand.

Rob was setting out his instruments- of healing the body, this time. He checked several times, cleaning and sharpening each blade, testing it against his arm.
There were a superfluity of bandages, of cloths and of bowls, all different sizes. Such things always came in handy, he had learnt.
Buckets of water were all he missed, now, since he reckoned there would be time to fill another two. If there were as many men delivered here as he feared, there would be no time to replenish the supply. Idly he wondered how many would come and lend a hand.

Post rated Mature for content.


This was not how things were supposed to go. The 27th had advanced as it had been ordered and the men chattered quietly about the coming fight. Grogan had been looking forward to the prospect of some real action, not just skirmishing. He was itching for a good fight, as was the rest of the regiment. It was a prime day for a scrap anyway.

The cheerful anticipatory mood dissolved quickly when the shelling started. At first, the rounds landed short of the regiment, but the French gunners were quick in adjusting their aim. Canister shot started coming down more accurately, punching holes in the ordered ranks with nearly every shell. Grogan avoided being hit by the first couple of shells, but the third shell came down only a handful of yards in front of him.

There was a flash of black and the next clear moment Grogan could grab onto, he realised that he was sprawled on the ground, not unlike a rag doll. It felt like he was on fire and he swatted instinctively at his coat, thinking that it was burning. Only one of his arms responded to his brain's order to move, however, and he felt a rush of panic. He flailed out with his right arm and managed, however awkwardly, to push himself up into a half-sitting position. And he discovered why his left arm had not moved. It had been laid open down to the bone at the shoulder. The entire limb felt heavy and useless. Grogan blinked in slow disbelief. How was he supposed to fight with only one arm?

"Corporal!"

He vaguely recognised the voice as belonging to Graves, one of the younger privates in his company. Why was Graves looking so terrified? "What the divvil...?" Grogan tried to asked, but a throaty cough demanded interruption. What the hell was wrong with him? Even as grievous as it was to lose an arm, he was not so badly hurt that he should be coughing!

"Pierce!" Graves was shouting for another man, not succeeding in looking like he was mastering his terror. The young private's fear was not doing anything to help Grogan's own unease and panic. Had he lost a leg as well, God forbid?

"Don't move, Corporal!" Both men said, as they reached for his arms. Grogan cursed them when they pulled on his wounded left arm, still not understanding what might be so terribly wrong. It was his arm, sure, but that was it. Wasn't it? And why were they dragging him along? He still had his legs, as far as he could tell. He could walk, dammit! But when he tried to put weight on his legs, he discovered that he could not feel them either, the same as he could not feel his left arm. Oh God.

Somebody spotted the two privates dragging him toward the surgeons' waggons. "Lord! Get him to the sawbones, quick!"

Grogan felt as though his head was awash. It was just his arm... but Graves - or was it Pierce? - tugged at his coat and the wool pulled up enough to reveal what the two privates had seen. Slick pink coils - they looked like a tangled bunch of ropes, he thought wildly - hung down from underneath his tattered shirt hem, glistening ominously in the pale sunlight. What was that? Grogan had a sick feeling that he knew precisely what that was. And there was blood, he finally saw. It was flowing unchecked, coating his trousers and shirt, and everything else that was close enough to be stained. But, strangely, there was no pain.

"Where..." Grogan coughed again and was annoyed with himself, however irrationally. "Where the hell's me musket?"

Pierce's face loomed dizzingly above him. "We gots it, Corp'ral. Rest ye easy, sawbones is gotcha."

The sawbones. Grogan felt himself relax, just a little. The sawbones could fix anything. He let out a long sigh and willed his eyes to close. The sawbones would fix him...


OOC - RIP, Corporal Grogan.

OOC- RIP indeed. sorry, there. We'll try and be gentle, never fear. Poor ole Grogan.

Water buckets were pushed out of his mind with the cries for sawbones which accompanied the half- dragged man arriving. He was hardly a pretty sight, and a glance at the two Privates confirmed they realised, too, though not as quickly or as fully as he did himself. Automatically he nodded a head and moved to lend a hand, nudging the smaller carrier out of his way as he took a good look. "Not verrah pleasant." he tried, bundling the innnards back into the gap as well he could. Where was the blood coming from- apart from the obvious, and was there any point doing much more than twisting a tourniquet round the left arm. Probably not, at that.

Briskly his hands moved again, finding the tight tourniquet without his eye's help. At least the man wasn't screaming.

OOC - Just give him five of morphine and that'll do.

IC -

Water buckets. Finch staggered slightly under the weight of the two filled buckets he was carrying, passingly annoyed that he had forgotten to retrieve them before now. How long had he been in this job, again?

"First one of the day, sir?" He asked quietly as he arrived, gratefully setting the buckets down. There were two privates standing close by, no doubt the pair who had borne their comrade here from the line. The poor lad was a mess. There was nothing to be done for him. It was a shame.

"Bugger's heavy fer a little sort," Turley grumbled, helping his mates carry a half-conscious Portuguese fellow up toward the surgeons' waggons. They had found themselves in charge of the man after crossing paths with a couple of Riflemen who'd been heaving a haycart back onto its wheels. In the babble of explanations that followed their arrival on the scene, Turley had been able to discern only that the Portuguese fellow was connected somehow to several staff officers - or something to that effect - and it was important to conduct him safely to the sawbones.

"Jes' don't drop him!" Hedges snapped, doing his best to balance the man's legs without jostling them too much. There was an ominous grinding sound in the fellow's left leg whenever the limb was moved, and that unnerved Hedges. "I ain't lookin' to get no staff officers swoopin' down on me 'cause we dropped their steward or somethin'."

"Sawbones!" Abbot called out at the top of his voice. "Hey! Make a path there, make way!"

OOC- where to start? I'm not wasting my morphine on a dead man who isn't feeling any pain currently. neither am I wasting my precious white bandages. Though he's allowed to lie there for as long as he likes!
IC_

More water, and the man who carried them. This place was begining to feel crowded already, them all standing in the same place instead of spread out as they would be later.
Calmly he turned from the inert form, made to wash the blood of his hands, "AYe. T'first and nae doubt t'worst."

carefully he measured out some water into a bowl, rinsed the blood off his hands and added, with his thanks, "See anything interestin' out there?" He had done work on the soon- to- be body, had established he would do the same to others, the privates still hanging around would see that. He was entitled to ask what he always liked to ask.
But it was not to be. Commotion again, grumbling and a new comer.

"What?" A small party of three- two standing and doing the yelling, one clearly not from their side and doing the groaning.

OOC - Fair point. But he can always be used for practise with whatever procedure later. Somebody else can move him, too...

IC -

Finch shook his head. It was not a good way to go at all. "Nothing expressly interesting yet, though it seems we are about to have another guest."

A pair of redcoats carrying a civilian. It was a sight not often seen. One of the redcoats looked as though he was about to pitch over, most likely from just having laid eyes on the unmoving corporal nearby.

"Lay him here," Finch directed, pointing. "Doesn't seem to be wounded..."

One of the redcoats made a face. "His leg, sir. It's all a-grindin' an' feels funny."

OOC- I like it. and if we get hungry...

IC-

"Grinding where?" Sinclair moved over to the now released civilian, adressing the redcoats although laying his hands on the leg.

He raised his eyes to Finch, already anticipating the answer, "splint and bandage are just behind you, if you will." he prompted, smiling at their newest patient in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

OOC - Braaaains!

IC -

"There, sir," Hedges said and pointed at the spot. He couldn't bring himself to touch the leg again.

Finch had turned away to retrieve the requested items. "Left leg, is it?" He asked, having seen how the redcoat had been so careful handling that limb.

"Where have you come from?" Jenny asked the redcoats before they departed. "Were the 60th rifles there?" She had thought to find Newbury here, but he seemed to have escaped from the surgeons' care. They were busy with more important injuries than his, of course, but it would be just typical of him if he had gone charging off into battle instead of resting as ordered.

Abbott looked blankly at the woman, not understanding at first why she would be asking him anything about the Rifles. Turley elbowed him.

"We seen 'em round'bouts the Seminary, Miss," Turley said. "All dashin' off like madmen. The noble ballsy sods."

She laughed at his description, but she was surprised to find herself feeling rather annoyed. She gave the wounded man an uninterested glance and turned to leave.

"Miss," Finch called, part-way through the delicate process of splinting the man's leg. "Would you be so good as to fetch some water for this fellow? He is asking for some."

She was about to protest, explain that she had urgent business to attend elsewhere, but in fact the opposite was true. She had nothing to do but sit and wait. She had been seeking Joe's company to alleviate boredom, so she really had no excuse to not fetch the poor man a cup of water. She returned in a few minutes with her own cup filled for him.

"Here's some water," she said vaguely, speaking both to the wounded man and to the surgeon's assistant.

The man offered an accented "Thank you" as he took the cup, which surprised Finch. He hadn't thought the fellow could speak English. He too offered a word of thanks to the woman, grateful for her help.

"Well," the surgeon's assistant said, tying off the end of the bandage. He found himself curious about why they would have gotten a Portuguese civilian ahead of their own wounded. "How did you come to be in this state, sir?"

He still had her cup. Well, it would be unkind to snatch it away from him now, and he might still want to drink the rest. Jenny could wait a few more minutes.

To Finch's surprise, the man managed a grin. "I had been trying to find the greenjackets. But instead they found me."

The greenjackets... ah, the Rifles. That made sense, in a way. Finch nodded as he dusted off his hands on his leather apron. "You weren't out on that leg, I hope!"

"No sir." The man sipped again from his borrowed cup and nodded gratefully.

"Were they the 60th or the 95th?" Jenny asked. Not that it would matter, really. He probably wouldn't know, and she couldn't very well ask him if he had happened to see a rather average-looking man who might look like he had a wounded side. "Were their patches red or black?" she asked anyway, gesturing to her neck where a collar would be.

"Red-patched," the man answered. "There were... two that passed by briefly but did not stop. Then there was another, who did."

Finch pulled over a folding chair and sat down, intrigued by the story as it slowly came out.

"What was happening?"

The man thought for a moment. "A running fight. The French were withdrawing and the greenjackets were following them. I heard whistles, before they came. That is the call for general charge, I believe?"

Was this a story- telling or a surgery, Sinclair wanted to ask. In truth it made no difference, and he was happy enough to be left to his own devices, leaving the Portugese man to stand closer their original patient.

Still alive, though only just. Shouldn't be long now. He just hoped the lass wouldn't be detained here and meet whomever she was looking for as he came in, too.

Jenny looked at the assistant surgeon and shrugged. But the French withdrawing, that sounded good. "Was it at the convent, or the seminary, or whatever it is?"