OPORTO, 22nd May - The Medical Corps

"Once ye've sat down again." Sinclair suggested, with an inflection leaving it both as question and order, in best bedside manner.
"Then, since ye have good, working hands, I shall put ye ter work grinding. Nae use asking ye ter fetch and carry." he smiled.

Calderón grinned, allowing some of his self-reproving levity to show, and hobble-hopped back toward where he had been lying. Being put to work grinding things to powder was not quite what he had thought he might be used for, but it was practical enough.

"I won't be fit for that for some time, I think."

"So long as ye remember that." he commented, turning back with full arms and carefully unloading them nearby.
"Ye ken what ter do? Jus' keep grinding these up till ye've nae more- but don't get up ter come and tell me when ye be done- when there's time I'll be back, don't worry." He stayed a moment longer, to make sure there were no questions.

The scout nodded and looked over the pile he was to work on. "I understand," he said as he picked up the mortar and pestle.

The flow of patients had begun to increase, and with it the pace at which the surgeons worked. Finch was perhaps busier than most, being only an assistant, but he barely noticed. He dropped the tattered remains of a shirt into a bucket set aside for that purpose and went directly back to work dressing a man's torso.

"Steady there, lad, you'll be fine," he told the redcoat as he tied off the long tailing end of the bandage. With that task finished, he sent the man off to sit outside and quickly cleared away the now-vacated space to make it ready for the next patient, whoever it might turn out to be.

"That's good." There was no time for further pleasantry, as through the door came three men in varying stages of distress.
Instictivly he moved towards the bloodiest- looking man, hands already gathering bandages and knife, preparing to cut away cloth which had fallen into the wounds, remove any bullet which had lodged there.

OOC - Stop me if I start going too medical. Or modern. Or both!

IC -

One of the worst wounded from the new batch was Abbott, one of the redcoats who had helped bring the Portuguese man in to them. He had taken a ball to the groin and, perhaps unsurprisingly, was more concerned about his anatomy being intact and undamaged.

The concern for the surgeons was more pressing. A ball to the groin might have struck an artery or major vein, which could have Abbott's pelvic cavity filling up with blood even as he tried to hobble toward the nearest empty table. He might be bleeding to death internally and not even know it. With that thought in mind, Finch drifted toward them, ready to offer whatever assistance might be required.

OOC- given my medical knowledge- if I can follow it, it's not too medical. Though about the modern? not too sure. Once you start hooking them up to machines, I'll step in, alright?

IC-
It was the same old story and Sinclair probed his own patient with thoroughness, though little excitment. The bullet was further in, though apparently, luckily, lodged merely in flesh, and he bent to retreive it with a quick turn of hiw wrist. "Ye'll do." he smiled, whipping thread through the deep hole and stepping back, drawn towards the concerned- sounding man on the table nest door.

A glance showed him what was happening- one man pressing down gently, checking for internal bleeding, eyes on the patients face. The man- Abbott- seemed more worried about a lower part of his anatomy, but there was clearly a more pressing worry. Sinclair stepped up next to Finch, ready to offer another blade should bleeding become necassary.

OOC - No, no machines. I'm still enough of a field medic to not think of those first. Though, I can't claim that I won't end up mentioning ten- or eleven-blades, or other things of that nature...

IC -

The redcoat was lucky, Finch thought, to have been sent back so quickly. He bade the man to lie down on the table he had been hobblng toward and went quickly to work, cutting Abbott's trousers open from the hole made by the musket ball so he could better see the wound. It was not a good one. He felt carefully around the wound for any obvious sign that the ball was near the skin and thought he sensed a small hard lump. It woudl have to be cut out.

"Keep still," Finch told the redcoat and looked around for any healthy bodies that could assist in restraining the poor fellow. "Shot through the groin. We must fetch the ball out, sir," he added when he spotted Sinclair standing close by.

OOC- good enough. I'm squashing firmly the bit of me that goeas 'Broken leg need sno-foam as splint'. I'm such a wilderness one.

IC-
"Aye." Abbott seemed unimpressed witht he idea, if the fearful eyes were anything to go by. Sinclair followed the route Finch's hands had taken, finding the same lump and agreeing. If that wasn't the ball, there was something else wrong here that would need seeing to anyway.
"We mustn't bother them." he nodded at their co-workers, busy over another three bodies, hands flashing in aide, and instead rubbed his hands briskly, laying out instruments, "Look for a couple men with working arms, to hold him down." He ordered.

OOC - A SAM splint and a couple cravats, and he'll be good to go. Maybe a shot of Toradol too. Just don't tell the staff doc...

IC -

"Yes sir." Finch took one short step back and looked toward the tent's entrance. There were - or had been, the last he had seen - several men who were only lightly wounded. "You two," the assistant surgeon called out, pointing at two other redcoats. "Come here, swiftly."

The two men came as bidden and in only a moment were holding Abbott's arms and shoulders down. That would do well enough, Finch thought. He swabbed the area that would be opened with a cloth and looked to see if Sinclair was ready to begin.

OOC- At least you get a full kit. Running around lugging someone with a broken leg over three- wire bridges for a couple of days isn't the most fun...with no real meds.

IC-
An intellegent man, he was, and picked two strong ones as well. A quick glance showed them all in position and he nodded, once, before begining his work.

A press of the blade, an increase in pressure, and he was in, looking at another man again, looking for their quary. Blood flowed out sluggishly and he spoke sharply.
"Stop that, there!" even as he prodded a little deeper.

OOC - Heh. Be glad you did that without a litter. It would have sucked more, I think. Also, 'full kit' depends on what the unit's SOP is. Real meds might only go as far as Motrin unless you've got a cool staff doc/PA. Besides which, medics typically aren't allowed to push meds. Typically...

IC -

Finch swabbed quickly at the incision site, keeping one hand free and ready to pass instruments along. This was looking more and more like it would be a longer procedure than most others taking place around them. The ball had to come out and they had to repair whatever damage there was around that wicked lead sphere.

"Hold his arms!" Finch barked when Abbott gave a jerk, reacting to the bite of the scalpel. The redcoat had to be kept still, or they were likely to do more injury where they were trying to repair it.

OOC- well, they were piggy- backed, then we were whiping up stretchers and tiping them sideway- not sure who was less impressed. The one with two packs, the ones with one arm holding them up or the one dangling sideways over a river.

IC-
It was a curious thing, when he was looking at something ike this- he could hear Finch, could hear the redcoats muttering and could sense the strength they held onto Abbott with, but he couldn't see anything other than what was directly before him.

Which was more than enough to be getting on with. There were enough problems here wihtout a slip and a cut in the mans gut to make matters worse. Now was the time to probe, anyway, and he glanced up for a moment, half turning to the side and stretching out a hand, blindly, for his tools.

OOC - Adventures in the outdoors. Win.

IC -

Fortunately, Abbott seemed to realise that it was important for him to keep still, for he stopped resisting. Good. That was one less thing to worry about. He swabbed away more bloody and watched Sinclair's progress.

"Foreceps, sir?" He asked, reaching for the instrument with his free hand.