I cut away a piece of muscle which stunk like bad meat.
“Can you feel that?” I asked.
“Feel what?” he murmured.
“I thought that might hurt. I was cutting your sleeve away, that's all.”
I cut out all the bad flesh, almost to the broken bones. I filled up the jagged hole with another iodine ampoule. I plugged the opening with double-cyanide gauze, and put on an antiseptic pad.
“Splints?” I asked.
“Haven't any.”
So I used the helve of an entrenching-tool and the stalks of the willow undergrowth.
I set his arm straight and bandaged it tightly and fixed it absolutely immovably. Then we got him on a stretcher, and they carried him three and a half miles to our ambulance tents. But I'm afraid that arm had to come off. I never heard of him again.
The other fellow was cheerful enough, and only set his teeth and drew his breath when I cut off his boot with a jack-knife. Wonderful endurance some of these young fellows have. There's hope for England yet.