For soldiers, nothing is more tragic than defeat, except victory follows closely behind as a disaster.
If anyone doubts this saying, just take them to see the wounded soldiers' camp.
In order not to affect the morale of the troops with the sight of the wounded, the Paratu army's medical tent is set up in the most secluded corner of the main camp.
Late at night, inside the half-open military tent.
Several surgeons, like butchers, rolled up their sleeves and bustled about the operating table. This text is hosted at novel•fire.net
Rather than sharp scalpels and delicate forceps, they used saws and cautery irons even more.
The wails of the injured never ceased, chilling to the listeners' bone.
Amputated arms and legs piled carelessly outside the tent, some still with remnants of military uniforms attached.
The night was dark, and some people accidentally stepped on them, mistaking them for discarded wooden debris.
The medical tent looked like a slaughterhouse, and anyone seeing it for the first time couldn't help but feel nauseated.
The medics and their assistants walked through the bloody mire as if accustomed to it.
Please do not blame them, for the care they were providing was far superior to any contemporary army's medical treatment.
The sound of gunfire was not far away, as the barbarians were attacking the southern camp walls.
The Paratu People raided the fortress, and the barbarians had to fight back.
The battle was not over, and despite the medical tent operating over capacity, the number of soldiers crying and waiting for treatment grew.
"Caman!" Winters, covered in blood, burst into the medical tent, desperately searching, "Doctor! Priest Caman!"
A team that seemed to have returned from hell followed the Centurion, the lightly wounded carrying the gravely injured, almost no one was without an injury.
In a tent in the corner of the medical tent, Caman was performing surgery.
He was pale and weary, with the only trace of his clerical status being the holy emblem hanging in front of his chest.
The soldier lying on the operating table had his left shin bone smashed by a blunt weapon; amputation was necessary.
"What's happening outside?"
Hearing the commotion outside the tent, Caman asked without lifting his head, his hands never ceasing their movement.
The sharp scalpel cut through skin, fat, and tendon until the bone was laid bare.
His assistant held a red-hot iron, periodically cauterizing the bleeding points.
Three other strapping assistants firmly restrained the soldier who had been given strong liquor, so he could not thrash about.
Speed was life; the faster the amputation was completed, the greater the chance of the injured person's survival.
"It's Centurion Montaigne!" another assistant of Caman exclaimed.
"Move the remaining patients to the other doctors! Now!" Caman dropped the scalpel, grabbed the saw and began sawing the shin bone.
His hands were steady, and it took just a dozen or so passes to saw through the shin and fibula bones. The assistant promptly cauterized the blood vessels and seamlessly took over the suturing.
From the first incision to the completion of the amputation, it took less than three minutes total.
"Over here!" Caman stepped out of the tent, waving and shouting, "Mr. Montaigne! Over here!"
Seeing familiar faces being carried into the medical tent one after another, Caman's complexion turned even paler.
Caman bluntly asked Winters, "Where's Mr. Mitchell?"
"At the back," Winters's eyes watered, "He's taken an arrow to the neck; he's not going to make it."
He watched helplessly as Pierre, who opened the way for the whole troop, was shot down by a stray arrow, while Anglu, Bell, and Vashka desperately dragged their companion back.
But he had to keep moving, for he bore the flag, and everyone was looking to him.
Jeska's company had broken through the enemy's lines with sheer determination and fought their way back to the main camp.
"Get Mr. Mitchell on the operating table!" Caman then asked Winters, "How about you?"
"I'm fine." Winters's face remained hidden beneath his helmet, for he didn't want others to see the tear stains, "But…"
"It's alright," Caman said softly, "Leave it to me."
"Don't saw off my arm! No!" Andre screamed in despair, "Whoever dares... I'll kill you!"
The soldiers held his limbs down firmly, fearing that Lieutenant Chelini's wound would burst open again.
Andre struggled to break free, but with so much blood lost, he had little strength left.
Andre's consciousness began to blur as he wept and pleaded, "Don't let them saw off my arm... Winters... don't let them…"
Andre's voice grew weaker, and soon he fell unconscious again, his previous agitation merely the last burst of energy before passing out.
Winters felt a pain in his chest as if being twisted by a knife, nearly unable to stand, he listened to the medic's words like a walking corpse.
The chief medic told Winters, "Lieutenant Chelini's wound cannot be stitched up, he must be amputated promptly. Otherwise, Lieutenant Chelini will be in mortal danger."
The chief medic also told Winters, "The lead bullet fragments can't be removed, Colonel Jeska's right eye also needs to be excised."
Winters approached Colonel Jeska's bedside, feeling a crushing sadness and helplessness that left him gasping for breath.
"Is that you?" Colonel Jeska reached out, groping towards darkness, "Lieutenant Montaigne?"
Winters grasped Colonel Jeska's hand tightly, tears streaming down his face, "Colonel, it's me."
"Don't cry, Winters," Jeska, who was always stern-faced, had now completely relaxed.
His demeanor was serene and calm, as if he felt no sorrow for himself, "A clay pot broken at the well, a general dead in battle. Isn't this quite common?"
The tent was quiet, only soft sobs could be heard.
"Do you have any liquor on you?" Colonel Jeska asked softly.