Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第14章

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as　it　made　to　lift　its　gun　and　point　it　at　him；　Larn　leapt　screaming　towards　it。
Knocking　the　gun　from　the　gretchin’s　hands　before　it　could　shoot；　Larn　made　to　grab　for　it
himself；　only　for　the　gun　to　skip　away　from　both　of　them　as　the　force　of　their　impact　sent　them
falling　to　the　ground。　Pushing　himself　on　top　of　the　creature；　desperately　trying　to　hold　it　off　with
one　hand　as　it　clawed　and　bit　at　him；　Larn　felt　the　fingers　of　his　free　hand　brush　a　hard　object　lying
on　the　ground　beside　him　and　he　grabbed　it。　As　he　raised　the　object　and　brought　it　crashing　down
into　the　gretchin’s　face；　Larn　became　dimly　aware　he　was　holding　his　own　helmet　but　he　was　past
caring。　In　a　frenzy　born　of　self…preservation；　he　raised　the　helmet　and　smashed　it　down　into　the
gretchin’s　face　again　and　again。　Repeatedly　smashing　the　creature　in　the　face　until　the　helmet　in　his
hand　was　slick　with　black　ichor。　Then；　finally　realising　the　gretchin　had　stopped　moving　long　ago；
Larn　paused　to　catch　his　breath。　By　then；　there　was　no　trace　left　of　the　smile　he　had　seen　from　the
gretchin　when　it　had　tried　to　kill　him。　Below　him；　the　gretchin’s　face　had　been　reduced　to　a　battered
shapeless　pulp。　The　creature　was　dead。　It　could　no　longer　hurt　him。
Hearing　the　chilling　sound　of　an　alien　battlecry；　Larn　looked　up　from　the　dead　body　beneath　him
to　see　a　group　of　a　dozen　orks　charging　towards　him。　For　a　moment　he　almost　turned；　whether　to　run
away　or　scramble　after　the　gretchin’s　fallen　gun　to　defend　himself　he　did　not　know。　Only　to　realise
that　no　matter　what　he　did　now　it　would　make　no　difference。　The　orks　were　too　close。　He　was　as
good　as　dead　already。
This　is　it；　he　thought；　his　panic　abruptly　displaced　by　an　unnerving　sense　of　calm。　I　am　going　to
die　here。　I　am　a　dead　man　and　there　is　nothing　anyone　can　do　to　save　me。
“Forward！”　he　heard　a　voice　yell　as　a　shotgun　boomed　behind　him　and　the　face　of　the　foremost
ork　disappeared　in　an　explosion　of　gore。　“Vardans；　by　my　mark！　Advance　and　rapid　fire！”
Amazed；　Larn　saw　a　battle…scarred　sergeant　in　a　grey…black　greatcoat　stride　past　him　leading　a
ragtag　band　of　Vardans　in　a　counter…charge　against　the　orks。　Moving　at　a　slow　walk；　firing　from　the
hip　with　shotguns；　lasguns　and　flamers　blazing；　they　advanced　towards　the　oncoming　orks；　taking　a
gruesome　toll　of　the　enemy　with　every　step　towards　them。　While　before　them　orks　screamed　and
died；　the　sergeant　led　his　men　forward　with　bullets　and　lasbeams　flying　all　around　him；　his　pace
never　faltering；　his　voice　a　clear　beacon　of　authority　among　the　confusion　of　battle。　Watching　the
sergeant　lead　his　men　from　the　front；　his　every　gesture　calm　and　unafraid；　Larn　found　himself
wondering　if　one　of　the　long…dead　saints　of　the　Imperium　had　somehow　regained　human　form　and
now　walked　among　them。　The　sergeant　seemed　immortal。　Unkillable。　Like　a　hero　from　the　tales
they　told　in　the　scholarium。
A　legend；　leading　his　men　to　victory。
“Forward！”　the　sergeant　yelled；　the　counterattack　gaining　momentum　as　every　man　still　alive　in
the　trenches　gathered　to　advance　beside　him。　“Keep　on　firing。　Forward　and　advance！”
Following　the　sergeant’s　lead　the　advance　continued；　the　constant　fire　of　the　Vardan　guns　and
the　slow　measured　pace　of　their　progress　seemed　every　bit　as　relentless　and　unstoppable　as　had　the
orks’　charge　earlier。　Until；　wilting　before　the　remorseless　ferocity　of　the　Vardans’　attack；　the　orks
did　something　which　Larn　had　never　thought　he　would　live　to　see。
They　turned　and　ran。
Watching　the　surviving　orks　run　back　towards　their　lines；　Larn　slowly　became　aware　of　a　brief
hush　falling　across　the　battlefield　as　the　Vardans’　advance　halted　and　they　stopped　firing。　Soon；　as　it
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became　plain　the　orks’　attack　was　ended；　new　sounds　broke　the　silence：　the　cries　of　wounded　men；
the　shouts　of　their　comrades　calling　for　a　medic；　the　noise　of　nervous　laughter　and　disbelieving
oaths　as　other　men　found　they　were　still　very　much　alive。　Hearing　those　sounds；　Larn　felt　the
tension　abruptly　leave　him　as　the　realisation　hit　him　that　he　had　survived。　Still　kneeling　over　the
body　of　the　dead　gretchin；　he　looked　down　at　the　thing’s　rained　face　in　with　sudden　queasiness；
afraid　he　was　going　to　vomit。　Then；　he　saw　a　shadow　fall　across　him　as　a　nearby　Guardsman　came
to　stand　beside　him。
“You　must　be　a　new　fish？”　a　cynical　voice　asked　him。　“One　of　the　new　groxlings　to　the
slaughter　they　sent　us　in　the　lander？　I　think　this　belongs　to　you。”
Looking　up；　Larn　found　himself　staring　at　an　ugly　dwarfish　Vardan　with　a　shaven　head　and　a
mouthful　of　stained　and　crooked　teeth。　The　Vardan　was　holding　a　lasgun　in　each　hand；　one　of　which
Larn　recognised　sheepishly　as　his　own　gun　—　the　same　weapon　he　had　lost　earlier。
“Here；　new　fish；”　the　rant　said；　giving　him　a　sardonic　broken…toothed　smile　as　he　tossed　the
lasgun　towards　him。　“Next　time　you　need　to　kill　a　gretch；　you　might　try　using　this。”
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CHAPTER　SEVEN
13：39　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
The　Field　Station　—　Lessons　in　Futility；　Parts　One　&　Two　—　Friends　&　Heroes　Awaiting　Disposal
—　Welcome　to　the　902ND　Vardan　—　Corporal　Vladek　and　the　Distribution　of　Resources　—
Meeting　Sergeant　Chelkar　and　an　Addition　to　Davir’s　Woes
Pausing　for　a　moment　to　catch　his　breath　while　he　waited　for　the　stretcher　bearers　to　bring　another
patient；　Surgeon…Major　Martus　Volpenz　was　surprised　to　realise　how　inured　he　had　become　to　the
sound　of　men　screaming。　Around　him；　the　walls　of　the　apothecarium　field　station　reverberated　with
it　constantly。　He　could　hear　men　shouting；　begging；　moaning；　shrieking；　muttering　profane　oaths
and　whispering　half…remembered　prayers。　Not　for　the　first　time；　ever　mindful　that　it　was　his　calling
to　alleviate　the　pain　of　others；　the　surgeon…major　looked　about　him　at　the　place　where　he　practised
his　craft　and　felt　despair。
To　a　man　less　accustomed　to　it；　the　dimly　lit　interior　of　the　field　station’s　main　operating　theatre
might　have　been　mistaken　for　a　scene　from　hell。　Along　one　wall　of　the　station；　hundreds　of　severely
wounded　men　lay　in　litters　stacked　four　men　high　on　a　series　of　metal　racks。　Against　the　other　wall　a
dozen　exhausted　surgeons　worked　feverishly　to　clear　the　most　urgent　cases　from　tables　that　stank
with　the　blood　that　stained　every　surface　of　the　floors　and　walls。　For　each　man　they　healed；　a　dozen
more　men　waited　amid　the　suffocating　stink　of　blood　and　pus　and　death；　desperately　wailing　and
pleading　for　help　in　a　cacophony　of　suffering　that　never　reached　its　end。
“Stomach　wound；”　his　surgical　assistant　Jaleal　said；　breaking　into　his　thoughts。　“He’s　been　given
morphia；”　he　added；　checking　the　treatment　notification　tag　on　the　patient’s　ankle　as　the　stretcherbearers
lifted　the　unconscious　form　of　a　wounded　Guardsman　onto　the　operating　table　before　them。
“Two　doses。”
Taking　a　pair　of　scissors；　Jaleal　removed　the　tag；　before　cutting　away　the　Guardsman’s　tunic　in
blood…encrusted　strips　to　reveal　the　wound　hidden　beneath　it。　Then；　taking　a　wet　cloth　from　a　bucket
at　the　foot　of　the　table；　he　washed　the　worst　of　the　blood　away　from　the　edges　of　the　wound。
“Looks　like　a　through　and　through；”　he　said。　“From　the　size　of　the　wound　I’d　say　an　ork　gun　was
the　culprit。　The　blood’s　dark。　Looks　like　his　liver’s　been　punctured。”
“Give　him　some　ether　somnolentus。”　Volpenz　said；　taking　a　scalpel　from　a　tray　of　instruments
nearby　as　he　stepped　to　the　side　of　table。　“Standard　dosage。”
“We　have　none；”　Curlen；　his　other　assistant；　said。　“We　used　what　was　left　on　the　last　patient。”
“What　about　the　other　anaesthetics？”　Volpenz　said。　“The　nitrous　oxide？”
“Gone　as　well；”　Jaleal　said。　“If　he　wakes　up　we’ll　just　have　to　hold　him　down。”
“At　least　tell　me　we　have　some　blood　plasma　left？”　Volpenz　said。　“If　I　have　to　go　digging
around　this　man’s　insides　in　search　of　a　wound　in　his　liver　he’s　going　to　bleed　like　a　stuck　pig。”
“Not　a　drop；”　Jaleal　said；　shrugging　in　helplessness。　“Remember　the　sucking　chest　wound
twenty　minutes　ago？　He　got　the　last　of　it。”
“How　much　blood　is　there　in　the　overspill　bag；　Jaleal？”　Volpenz　asked。
Ducking　his　head　under　the　table；　Jaleal　checked　the　contents　of　the　transparent　bag　underneath
it　designed　to　catch　the　blood　bleeding　out　of　the　patient　as　it　oozed　along　the　disposal　gutters　set　in
the　table’s　sides。
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“About　half　a　litre；”　he　said；　pulling　the　bag　up　from　beneath　the　table。　“Maybe　three…quarters。”
“All　right；”　Volpenz　said。　“Replace　that　bag　with　a　new　one　and　use　the　contents　of　the　one
you’ve　got　to　autosanginuate　him。”
“You　want　to　transfuse　him　with　his　own　blood？”　Jaleal　said。　“There’s　barely　enough　in　here　to
keep　a　dog　alive；　never　mind　a　man。”
“There’s　no　other　choice；”　Volpenz　said；　leaning　forward　with　a　practiced　hand　to　make　the　first
incision。　“He’ll　die　anyway　if　this　wound　isn’t　seen　to。　Now；　look　sharp；　gentlemen。　We’re　going　to
have　to　do　this　fast；　before　he　bleeds　to　death。”
Cutting　an　incision　to　open　the　wound；　Volpenz　quickly　peeled　back　the　skin　around　it　and　fixed
a　clamp　in　place　to　keep　it　open。　Then；　while　beside　him　Jaleal　used　his　cloth　to　mop　at　the　blood
welling　in　the　wound　cavity；　Volpenz　searched　desperately　for　the　source　of　the　bleeding。　It　was
hopeless。　There　was　so　much　blood　in　the　wound　he　could　hardly　see　a　thing。
“Vital　signs　are　weak；”　Curlen　said；　his　fingers　at　the　man’s　neck　to　feel　his　pulse。　“We’re　losing
him。”
“Lift　his　legs　up；　Jaleal。　It’ll　send　more　blood　to　his　heart；”　Volpenz　said。　“I　only　need　a　few
more　seconds。　There！　I　think　I’ve　found　it。　He’s　got　a　tear　in　the　main　artery　leading　to　the　liver。”
Pushing　his　hands　deep　into　the　wound　cavity　Volpenz　clamped　the　bleeding　artery　shut。　Only　to
find　his　hopes　frustrated　as；　abruptly；　the　cavity　began　to　fill　with　blood　once　more。
“Damnation！　There　must　be　another　bleeder！　Curlen；　how’s　he　doing？”
“I　can’t　find　a　pulse　anymore；　sir。　We　could　try　to　manually　resuscitate　him？”
“No；”　Volpenz　said；　throwing　his　bloody　scalpel　down　on　the　instrument　tray　in　frustration。　“It
wouldn’t　do　any　good。　He’s　bled　out。　The　round　probably　hit　a　rib　and　caused　bone　fragments　to
perforate　his　liver　in　a　dozen　places。　Clear　th