crawled into the car and found the corrugated vegetable box that was packed with bandages and peroxide and iodine. Her hands were steadier now. She glanced up. A man stood in front of her, his face covered with blood. "Where the hell are the gauze pads?" Fargo shouted at her.
"None. We don't have any," she said, fighting back her tears and her desire to be sick.
"Shit! Don't none of you have an ounce of brains? O.K., cut up the wide bandage and make me pads. Where's the water?"
She was straggling with the bandage now, realizing that no one had thought to provide a pair of scissors. "Water?"
"Water! How the hell do you expect to wash wounds without water?"
"We don't have any water. Just peroxide and iodine."
"Oh, Jesus God!"
Barbara was trying to tear the heavy cotton bandage with her shaking hands and her teeth.
"Here, use this," Fargo said, taking a knife out of his pocket, opening the blade and handing it to her. "You got court plaster?"
She nodded.
"O.K. Make the pads and then have strips of court plaster ready to hold them in place." He turned to two of the longshoremen. "You two—take that can"—pointing to the milk can of coffee, and saying to Barbara, "What's in it?"
"Coffee."
"Dump the coffee, and fill it with warm water."
"Where?"
"Shit! Don't ask me questions. Get the fuckin' water!"
Glancing up from the pads she was making, Barbara had a vision of the particular hell that she had been plunged into. Kneeling in the station wagon, she was looking at a mass of bleeding, battered men gathered around the tailgate, their faces covered with blood, gash&d, eyes swollen and closed, one man with a bullethole in the palm of his hand, groaning with pain, another holding an obviously broken arm.
"Line up, mates," Fargo said, his voice suddenly gentle. "Worst injured first. Let me see that hand. Peroxide, Bobby."
She handed him the peroxide. She was getting the knack of stripping the bandage, piling the pads neatly in the box. "Please, don't shake so," she whispered to her hands. She began to strip the court plaster into different lengths, sticking the end of each piece onto one of the ceiling struts of the station wagon. "That's the girl," Fargo said. "You're doing fine."
"There's supposed to be two doctors in the soup kitchen on Bryant Street," Barbara said.
"That's just fine. We need them in the soup kitchen. Hand me a pad. Now plaster."
"The man with the bullet wound—he ought to go there."
He had bandaged the hand. Now he was putting a pad on a head cut. "You're O.K., buddy. Take him over to Bryant Street, and if the goddamn doctors won't come back with you, get more plaster and bandages. And gauze pads. And more peroxide. And get them back here."
Now the street had almost emptied of everyone but the hurt men, yet they came, more and more of them. The battle had moved down to the Embarcadero, and Barbara could hear the shouting and the screaming and the gunfire in the distance.
"We're going to close the belt line," Fargo said.
"You mean the railroad?"
"That's right. They got their scabs and they're shipping goods. Either we stop the railroad or it's over."
The two men who had taken the milk can returned. One of them had a cut over his eye. Fargo was occupied. "Let me help you," Barbara said.
Without looking at her, Fargo said, "Get the can open. Wash it with the water. Then use iodine, carefully. We'll save the peroxide. It's half gone already."
She had stopped thinking about what she was doing, simply doing it. She washed the cut, touched it with iodine, pressed a pad on it as she had seen Fargo do, and then secured it with strips of plaster. Another man took his place. Head cuts, cheekbones laid open, a broken mouth with half the teeth gone. She recoiled from this, fighting back the tears again. "Fargo, please, I don't know what to do with this." As with a broken arm. "Hold it like this," Fargo said to her. He broke up a picket sign to make splints. Then, "More pads, Bobby. We're running out."
As she began to fold pads,
"None. We don't have any," she said, fighting back her tears and her desire to be sick.
"Shit! Don't none of you have an ounce of brains? O.K., cut up the wide bandage and make me pads. Where's the water?"
She was straggling with the bandage now, realizing that no one had thought to provide a pair of scissors. "Water?"
"Water! How the hell do you expect to wash wounds without water?"
"We don't have any water. Just peroxide and iodine."
"Oh, Jesus God!"
Barbara was trying to tear the heavy cotton bandage with her shaking hands and her teeth.
"Here, use this," Fargo said, taking a knife out of his pocket, opening the blade and handing it to her. "You got court plaster?"
She nodded.
"O.K. Make the pads and then have strips of court plaster ready to hold them in place." He turned to two of the longshoremen. "You two—take that can"—pointing to the milk can of coffee, and saying to Barbara, "What's in it?"
"Coffee."
"Dump the coffee, and fill it with warm water."
"Where?"
"Shit! Don't ask me questions. Get the fuckin' water!"
Glancing up from the pads she was making, Barbara had a vision of the particular hell that she had been plunged into. Kneeling in the station wagon, she was looking at a mass of bleeding, battered men gathered around the tailgate, their faces covered with blood, gash&d, eyes swollen and closed, one man with a bullethole in the palm of his hand, groaning with pain, another holding an obviously broken arm.
"Line up, mates," Fargo said, his voice suddenly gentle. "Worst injured first. Let me see that hand. Peroxide, Bobby."
She handed him the peroxide. She was getting the knack of stripping the bandage, piling the pads neatly in the box. "Please, don't shake so," she whispered to her hands. She began to strip the court plaster into different lengths, sticking the end of each piece onto one of the ceiling struts of the station wagon. "That's the girl," Fargo said. "You're doing fine."
"There's supposed to be two doctors in the soup kitchen on Bryant Street," Barbara said.
"That's just fine. We need them in the soup kitchen. Hand me a pad. Now plaster."
"The man with the bullet wound—he ought to go there."
He had bandaged the hand. Now he was putting a pad on a head cut. "You're O.K., buddy. Take him over to Bryant Street, and if the goddamn doctors won't come back with you, get more plaster and bandages. And gauze pads. And more peroxide. And get them back here."
Now the street had almost emptied of everyone but the hurt men, yet they came, more and more of them. The battle had moved down to the Embarcadero, and Barbara could hear the shouting and the screaming and the gunfire in the distance.
"We're going to close the belt line," Fargo said.
"You mean the railroad?"
"That's right. They got their scabs and they're shipping goods. Either we stop the railroad or it's over."
The two men who had taken the milk can returned. One of them had a cut over his eye. Fargo was occupied. "Let me help you," Barbara said.
Without looking at her, Fargo said, "Get the can open. Wash it with the water. Then use iodine, carefully. We'll save the peroxide. It's half gone already."
She had stopped thinking about what she was doing, simply doing it. She washed the cut, touched it with iodine, pressed a pad on it as she had seen Fargo do, and then secured it with strips of plaster. Another man took his place. Head cuts, cheekbones laid open, a broken mouth with half the teeth gone. She recoiled from this, fighting back the tears again. "Fargo, please, I don't know what to do with this." As with a broken arm. "Hold it like this," Fargo said to her. He broke up a picket sign to make splints. Then, "More pads, Bobby. We're running out."
As she began to fold pads,
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