"It's a combination of severe bruises and a scalp wound ... not serious, Monsieur. Lucky there. We're certain about those injuries. Confident." Phelan clicked his pen against the side of the examination table. "Trust is what you lack ... cover him nurse. Don't you see he's shivering!"
Dennison felt himself roll with pain.
So the shelling had gotten his arm!
It was lying there beside him, and he was powerless to move it: smashed bones, shredded flesh, stinking flesh ... that's how it was! Still he wanted to see his arm and attempted to turn his head, his mind at loose ends: but he was being wheeled on the gurney; he sank into his pillow, moaning.
"I can't go through life without an arm," he said to the nurse as he rolled through a hallway. "I can't..."
Back in his room, he called Sister Blanche to his side.
"Wait a few days ... give me a chance."
"We don't dare wait," she replied.
"Another day..."
"That would double the danger."