Dennison tried to raise his right arm ... yes, the right arm, the arm in the sling ... they were moving again.
Pain closed in.
In mid-morning, Dennison bumped out of the ambulance into a windy sun. Within seconds someone spread additional blankets over him. He was babied by someone tall and grey eyed. Rubber wheels hissed. The sky swayed. Other Sisters-of-Charity appeared: the gurney tilted, the sky tilted: door after door whirled by.
Very soon he realized he was inside a room: its all-around whiteness assured him: he shut his eyes, longing for a sense of stability.
Morning moved into afternoon.
Afternoon moved into pain.
The probing of the arm began: two doctors, a surgeon, two nurses--a Sister Blanche attended Orville; his mind screwed up to a pitch and then blacked out. There were x-rays, painful shiftings of the body: his brain shut down again and again: then, the radiologist began talking; he had to have time for his pipe; then Dr. Pierre Phelan, the surgeon, spoke through his gauze mask. In Dennison's eyes Phelan's eyes were the eyes of cruelty, eyes inside a mask. Phelan outlined techniques for the two doctors. Now they were in surgery. Phelan was talking to a British medic. The Britisher was having a miserable time with his French. Egged on by pain, Dennison attacked Phelan, accusing him of carelessness, army bungling, come-easy-victims, goddamn sadism.
"I've been a surgeon for twenty-odd years, my boy. I've a sort of built-in skill. Not easy to shake that skill. Besides, let's skip that. You see, Dennison, there is no alternative! You've lost nerve ends. The brachi- and pronator teres and humerus are badly damaged..."
"I want to see my arm," Dennison objected.
"Lie still."