href="#u72d1c4cc-5b63-5c75-8b25-6a74c28bc7dc">Dedication
SCREECH. THUNK. METAL hitting concrete.
Men shouting.
‘Accident!’
‘Quelqu’un est blessé!’
‘Aidez-moi!’
Bang!
A swinging metal chain swiped the crane it was attached to, swinging outward.
More shouts and yells.
‘Cherchez le médecin!’
Kristina Morton spun around and began running towards the noise, her heavy pack bouncing on her back, aggravating damaged muscles.
‘I’m a doctor,’ she shouted to the security guard standing at the steel gate accessing the wharf where a freight ship was being loaded. Tapping her chest, she said, ‘Doctor. Me.’
The man shook his head. ‘Non.’ He pointed to another ship. ‘Docteur.’
‘Oui.’ Pointing in the same direction, Kristina uttered one of about five French words she knew. ‘Yes, I’m a doctor joining that ship. Doctor.’
Rolling her shoulders back, she slid out of the straps of her pack and dug into a side pocket, handed over her wharf pass. Written in French, it did say she was a doctor. Didn’t it? She hadn’t taken a lot of notice when she’d received it along with other documents at the hotel reception desk where she’d stayed in central Marseilles last night.
The lock clanged open and the gate swung wide, allowing a man in fluorescent overalls to run frantically towards the SOS Poseidon, the Medicine For All charity ship Kristina had been bound for.
The guard called after him with urgency and Kristina took the opportunity to slip into the sealed-off area, her pack knocking against her good leg. It wasn’t hard to see what’d happened. Seventy metres along the wharf pieces of a metal cage were spread across a wide area, and from under what looked like a side of the crate protruded a pair of legs, while the man’s helmet-encased head was under the edge bar. Men were clustering around, waving their hands and yelling at each other.
‘Oh, hell.’ She ran faster, reached the men and dropped to her knees with a hard thump. Ignoring the pain that set off in her injured thigh, she shouted, ‘I’m a doctor.’ ‘Doctor’ sounded similar to the French version; surely they’d get the message? Too bad if they didn’t, she was already observing the man crushed under the steel strops meant to hold the side of the cage together, except they’d sprung apart on impact. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked without thinking, and got a surprise when someone replied.
‘Antoine. Is he unconscious?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Reaching under the metal for his wrist proved impossible, it was too far in, so she pressed a finger on his carotid. ‘Antoine, can you hear me?’ Damn. He wouldn’t understand her. ‘Can you talk to him, see if he’s responsive?’ she asked the man who spoke English, before focusing on the pulse rate. Normal. So far so good, but still a long way to go.
She couldn’t understand what he said to Antoine but she recognised the flickering eyelids. The helmet had done its job. A quick appraisal showed blood seeping through Antoine’s trousers from his groin where a metal shaft had lodged. Her heart stuttered as the memory of a similar injury swamped her. Automatically her hand went to her thigh and rubbed down the ridge of scar tissue.
‘I told him you’re a doctor. I’ll get some men to lift this.’ The man now squatting next to her knocked the cage.
‘Get them ready, but don’t move it yet. Antoine’s bleeding. Removing the pressure could cause a haemorrhage.’ Bleeding out wasn’t an option on her watch. Not again. The guilt at not being able to prevent Corporal Higgs dying had not dissipated so much that this didn’t unnerve her. Not that she’d been in any position to help the soldier, being disabled herself, but doctors were meant to save people, no matter what. ‘I need something to make a wad to press over the bleeding.’
Moments later Kristina was handed a small bundle of shirt pieces folded into squares, while another man was tearing his shirt into strips to tie the wads in place. She wouldn’t think about the hygiene aspect, containing the bleeding was the priority.
‘Thank you. Merci.’ The odd angle of Antoine’s left leg indicated a fracture above the knee. ‘Be careful, don’t hit this when you take the grill away.’ She pointed to the rod.
‘It’s attached. It’ll pull out.’
She hadn’t noticed that. Now she’d prefer the man unconscious. He needed morphine, fast. ‘Can you send someone to the Poseidon and get a doctor to bring drugs for pain and some oxygen?’
The man looked along the wharf. ‘Someone’s coming. He’s got a bag and a small tank. Is that what you want?’
‘I
