Not for the Faint Hearted.

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

OOC: If you’re faint hearted, don’t read on, bit gruelling for the stomach. Otherwise, read on and join.

“FORCEPS! Where’s my bloody Forceps!” angrily scowled one of the surgeons as he leaned over a dying man, his scalpel already sliding out of the long incision upon the man’s chest; Blood drooling down either side of the bare muscular physic of the unconscious male on the table, a young nurse wiping the content of blood with what seemed to be a bundled up sterilized bandage tied to the end of a metallic rod, clamped against the bundle of bandages soaking up the blood. The operating theatre was mayhem, curtains separating each six by twelve square foot of space for each group of medical personal to work between…

Young Peter was towards the end of the room, aiding a Surgeon with a short temper who was almost about to hurl his bone-saw at one of the young nurses with nervous hands. “Hold it still god-damn you woman!”[/I] scowled the Surgeon once again, as he impatiently already began to pin-point the point of entry for the bone-saw to insert upon the broken leg, mangled from a explosion and riddled with infection. Peter’s eyes darted away from the limb as the Surgeon began to use his brute upper strength to yank and push the saw into the man’s leg, the slicing noise of it cutting through the bone made one of the young nurses gag quite loudly, that in turn caused another nurse to go pale and blue around the gills.

Stepping in, Peter pushed the young nurse aside - who was holding the leg quite shakily by now, to take over. “Go, get some air” Peter said quickly, sparing her from the arrogance of the Surgeon any further, as she hastily sprinted towards the large theatre’s doors, stumbling out with a nauseating gurgle from the throat, spilling her breakfast up against the wall in chunks. Peter pushed the noises aside, there was already three other surgical performances going on in the room, with all of the curtains dangling loosely between each procedure. They were short for space and Peter found it disturbing that the rectangular room they were in, must’ve once been a delivery room for babies -- Particularly as the walls were somewhat decorated in child care posters and motherly advice to the young.

“Hold his leg boy”[/I] barked the Surgeon, as he felt his grip slip a little on the bone-saw, Peter abruptly gripping into the soldier’s leg tightly as he nodded. After a few more tugs and pushes, the leg gave way and snapped from it’s last remaining muscle tendon to hit the bucket beneath. “Tighten the strap! He’s bleeding like a bitch!”[/I] bluntly announced the Doctor as he stepped back, avoiding the small squirt of blood that erupted from one of the veins. Peter yanked at the belt tied around the male’s thigh to dampen the blood spew, before looking towards the Surgeon who casually strolled towards a nearby stove that’d been placed in the room to adjust the gas a little and pick up a large frying pan. Walking back, he leant forwards with his free hand holding at the man’s leg. “Who’d thought we’d be using frying pans to seal legs? Hold him boy”[/I], he said with a timid smile, before pushing the hot underneath of the frying pan against the soldier’s stump heavily and forcefully.

The sizzling noise engulfed the room and the smell of burnt flesh soon followed. Peter gagged quietly as he held at the leg firmly, his hands calm and motionless, yet his stomach growled and jumped to the smell and noise. After a good minute, the Doctor pulled the frying-pan away and stood back, nodding some “Good Good, Nurse bandage it - let’s take five” he said pleasingly with himself, dropping the frying pan into a bucket of water. Peter moved aside for the nurse to take over and quite pale faced and briskly, left the room through a back door at the side of the room - stepping down the couple of stairs, he weakly fell against the wall and slid down it, feeling utterly sick and faint. Sitting there, he wiped his blooded hands against the dirty apron he was wearing, knowing this was the first and perhaps last break of the day for him and it was only lunchtime. Heck’, he’d already taken part in performing four amputations and numerous other surgical procedures, he wasn’t quite sure how much more he could take…

[jackdaniels]

Jack was walking up the stair feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd just saved a man's life by amputating a particularly ugly that had been brutally infected with gangerine but days before. A tate sense of pride was flowing through his body and he was in an unusually good mood.

He was walking slowly up the stairs whistling tunlessly to himself when he saw a young medic sitting against the wall looking pale. He was coverd in blood; his hands were crimson-red and he looked almost as though he was going to be sick. Jack vaguely recognised the young medic. Branigan. That was his name. John Branigan. No. Peter.

"Are you OK, man?" he asked boisterously, tapping the pale medic on the shoulder.

"Do you want to go for a walk around the hospital?" he offered. "You look like you could do with some fresh air,"

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys stumbled into the hospital, clutching his bloody hand and wincing in pain. He didn't want to take up any of the dctors' valuable time - especially when there were people who seriously needed help - but his hand was agony. One of his new recruits, a foolish lad named Morgan had accidentally shot him in the wrist during target practice. Well, Morgan maintained that it was an accident. Rhys wasn't so sure.

The bullet was still welded into the palm of the Staff Sergeant's hand and he'd lost a fair amount of blood. It was hardly a major wound but he hoped he'd at least get a bit of looking after. The head surgeon seemed to have other plans.

"Get out of here,"he snarled, brandishing his officer insignia pompously. "There are men here - brave men - dying of proper bullet wounds. Not scabs a schoolboy could shrug off! Good day to you, Sergeant!"

"Staff Sergeant," mumbled Rhys, turning away from the less than friendly surgeon and hobbling back the way he came.

As he was about to exit through the large double-doors and maybe search for a wandering medic, he noticed two crouched figures in a far corner. He recognised the first as Jack Daniels, a relatively new recruit to the RWF and the division's only medic and, although he recognised the second's face, he couldn't place it to a name.

"Jack," he smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. "A little help here?"

[jackdaniels]

"Jack," said a voice behind him," "A little help here?"

Jack span around to see an old friend of his, Rhys Bevan, approaching him. Then it hit him. Bevan was doubled over clutching a hand covered with blood.

Jack instinctively rushed over to his friend and helped him over to his companion.

"Sit down, Rhys," he said clearly, easing Rhys to the floor as gently as he could. He grabbed his medicine bag from the floor and got out his medical kit. He handed Rhys a single tablet of weakened morphine and withdrew his trusty old knife from his belt. As soon as the morphine had kicked in he got to work on the bullet. Jack grimaced at his friend.

"This is going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt you," he said almost apologetically and, gritting his teeth, he began to pry the bullet from his friend's hand.

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Slouched against the wall, Peter rubbed his face between his dry blooded hands and sobbed quietly to himself, he wasn’t crying, but trying too. Peter had lost all sense of emotion the day he’d begun working between the ‘deathly walls’ of this horrible place. It wasn’t a place for saints and saviours anymore, but a place of riddled death and torment; Perhaps Peter didn’t look at the bigger picture, how amputating limbs would actually save lives or how bedding sick soldiers mingled with infection or illnesses would cure them, but rather he was accustom to picking out the sore points. Let’s face it, the hospital wasn’t full of spring chickens and healthy people, but obviously the opposite and Peter was surrounded by it, day after day. Oh how he wished to be on the field of combat again, he truly did imagine it being a thousand times better than here…

Someone touched him and Peter suddenly grabbed at the opposing male’s forearm, ready to break it. His eyes were pink from the lack of sleep and dark rings circled beneath his eyes; He hadn’t slept for a day or two since the 9th Army came stumbling back into barracks, wounded and with their dead. Looking to the fellow Doctor, Medic who asked if he was alright, Peter let go from the gruff of his sleeve and nodded - muttering out “I’m fine…”. He wasn’t arrogant, but the fellow Doctor had caught him at a bad time and Peter could hardly face him, as he looked about himself, watching as a couple of nurses in the short distance made a hurry to one of the wards. It looked as if one of the unconscious soldiers may’ve just woken up to see he had no arms or legs… The amputees usually made a lot of noise when they came around. Poor sods.

Someone else soon entered Peter’s protective circle and his head snapped towards what seemed to a Sergeant, cradling his hand in pain. He wasn’t sure if the young Medic who approached him was going to help the man, but Peter’s instinct kicked in and he climbed to his feet quickly, as if the overworked doctor suddenly took over. “What’s wrong Sergeant?” he asked curiously, brushing past the Medic who was asking if he was alright, Peter’s tiresome eyes looking to the hand he clutched tightly, pulling back the Sergeant’s fingers to look at the blood spattered bullet wound. “Okay, looks like you’ve still got the bullet in you, I need you to hold tightly at your wrist, until I get a tourniquet applied to your arm” he said requesting with a firm tone, taking Rhy’s hand to place onto his wrist again, hoping he still had the strength to squeeze it.

Looking to the fellow Medic who seemed to be the man’s friend, he nodded some to him and began to speak. “He’s not porously bleeding, but I don’t want to chance any haemorrhaging to occur. Could you get me something sterile to get the bullet out please” he asked calmly, before turning towards the Sergeant to look about for somewhere to seat him. The place was packed and there was hardly anywhere to take him. “Here, sit on the table” he said quickly, brushing a few newspapers onto the floor, clearing it for him.

[Rhys Bevan]

Rhys was impressed by the medic's instant taking command of the situation. He was lesser in rank to Daniels but he seemed to be so much...older. This was a man who knew what he was doing, thought Rhys to himself. He was jolted out of his thoughts by a particularly painful sting as the pain in his wrist grew into agony and he cried out in pain instinctively.

"Okay, looks like you’ve still got the bullet in you," said the medic, stating the obvious ever so slightly. "I need you to hold tightly at your wrist, until I get a tourniquet applied to your arm,"

Rhys nodded dumbly. There wasn't much to say and he didn't want to start a sentence that would trail off in screams of pain. The medic gripped Rhys' wrist and the Staff Sergeant winced before reverting to heavy breathing.

The medic gave Daniels some kind of order and turned back to Rhys. Rhyd had set his mind to the default setting of ignoring anything the medics said for fear of being surrounded with medical jargon and merely concentrated on not passing out. That, he decided would be humiliating.

“Here, sit on the table,” said Daniels' colleague, clearing a small desk nearby of papers and broadsheets and Rhys obliged willingly. It was as uncomfortable as all desks would be in the circumstances and Rhys spent a good few seconds glaring at a lucky corporal who had been granted a bed to lie in. Some people had all the luck. Granted, the corporal had only one leg but the point was still there.

"Bloody favouritism," Rhys muttered under his breath, before turning to the medic and grinning. "Nice day at the office, dear?"

[robertgreen]

Robert had been visiting a child hood friend of his who had just joined the army. He had just returned from Italy with a bullet in his thigh and another in his shoulder. He had been rushed back to the barracks in a transport plane and taken into the hospital here.

The doctor's had told him to leave because the patient needed rest. He had said his goodbye's and left.

He was now walking along the corridors towards the main entrance. Shouts of panic during surgical procedures and soldiers crying out in pain while waiting to be treated were surrounding him. He had finally reached the main entrance and all was quiet. Well almost everything. He could see Staff Sergeant Rhys Bevam lying on a desk with Jack Daniels and another medic he had only seen around the place treting him.

He ran over past a one legged corporal and asked if he could do anything to help.

[Daniel Brennan]

Moderation Post


The following CP has been issued;

S.Sergeant R. Bevan: Didn't really post much and they weren't very long. 3P.

Jack Daniels: One very short post? 0CP

Pilot Officer Green: One short post, although it did have alright grammar and spelling. 1CP.

Medical Tech. Branigan: Posted only a few times, but always at least twice as long as the others. You have been awarded 5CP as well as being promoted to Medical Tech. 2nd class. (Not only for this thread: you had it coming to you anyway...)

~Dan