sprinkled sulfa powder on them and began tying on tight compresses. While he did, Prell briefed him, through clenched teeth, on what he had seen and on the presence of Sasaki, “In case anything should happen to me.”
Prell knew he had to get them out of there. And do it swiftly. There wasn’t anything he could do for Crozier and Sims, but he could still do something for the others. The other two wounded could walk, after a fashion. He himself couldn’t walk, and he could feel the bones grate together in his legs. Two other men were already improvising a stretcher out of their buttoned-up fatigue blouses and two rifles. When they got him on it and hoisted him, Prell thought for a moment he would pass out. Then he got them moving and out of there.
As they moved away, mortar rounds began to drop singly around the trail junction, searching for them with tree bursts. By a matter of minutes he had anticipated them again.
As they moved along, the thought of the state of his legs made Prell’s belly go cold again inside. You never considered how important your legs were to you until you didn’t have them and couldn’t call on them. There was no way you could move much at all, when you didn’t have legs. It was then that he made up his mind that if he lost them, he wouldn’t stay.
They knew they only had half a mile to go. But on the mud-slicked trail the going was difficult. For the walking wounded, the men carrying the dead and the men carrying Prell. Up to then Prell had not felt much pain, just a dull toothache in his legs that warned him the pain would be coming and he could depend on it. On the march, it came. With each step of the men carrying him he could feel the splintered ends of his femurs moving around in the already tortured flesh of his thighs like sharp instruments, further lacerating the already torn meat. He was worried one of them might cut its femoral artery, and tried to hold as still as possible. But it was impossible to be still. For Prell it was the beginning of an odyssey of movement and pain that would continue for two months and carry him halfway around the world to the Army hospital in Luxor. And the pain part wouldn’t end then. He had put one of his BAR men back as rear guard and the other out front, to try to fend off any Jap patrols hunting for them. Luckily they did not meet any head-on. As they got nearer to their own lines, the trail branched out into a series of parallel trails and transverses that the Japs had built to supply their now-abandoned line. Here he could maneuver a little and give them the slip. Twice they hid, as talking Jap squads moved along nearby parallel trails looking for them. But the fatigue-blouse stretcher under Prell’s legs was beginning to be soaked with his heavy bleeding. He went halfway out and came back several times. When they got within hailing distance of their own line, they decided they had better take a chance and yell for help.
A reinforced patrol with a medic in it came out to cover them while the medic worked on Prell and strung a plasma bottle on him, and then escorted them in, to everybody’s vast relief and delight. At the battalion aid station the battalion surgeon looked at the legs and shook his head. Dolefully. He crudely splinted the legs to keep the femurs from working any more and had Prell strapped on a regular, real stretcher to be jeeped out. For Prell this was the end of it, and he knew it, at least with this outfit. He would probably never see this outfit again. There had been times when he had hated it, and every person in it, but now he hated to leave it. As they hung him on the body-loaded jeep, he kept his face set. He was flown out the next afternoon. The battalion commander gave the whole squad the morning off, to come down and see him. That did not sound as if anybody suspected him of misconduct.
It had not been a lucky patrol. All the same, Prell knew he had done everything right and correctly. He had done everything
Prell knew he had to get them out of there. And do it swiftly. There wasn’t anything he could do for Crozier and Sims, but he could still do something for the others. The other two wounded could walk, after a fashion. He himself couldn’t walk, and he could feel the bones grate together in his legs. Two other men were already improvising a stretcher out of their buttoned-up fatigue blouses and two rifles. When they got him on it and hoisted him, Prell thought for a moment he would pass out. Then he got them moving and out of there.
As they moved away, mortar rounds began to drop singly around the trail junction, searching for them with tree bursts. By a matter of minutes he had anticipated them again.
As they moved along, the thought of the state of his legs made Prell’s belly go cold again inside. You never considered how important your legs were to you until you didn’t have them and couldn’t call on them. There was no way you could move much at all, when you didn’t have legs. It was then that he made up his mind that if he lost them, he wouldn’t stay.
They knew they only had half a mile to go. But on the mud-slicked trail the going was difficult. For the walking wounded, the men carrying the dead and the men carrying Prell. Up to then Prell had not felt much pain, just a dull toothache in his legs that warned him the pain would be coming and he could depend on it. On the march, it came. With each step of the men carrying him he could feel the splintered ends of his femurs moving around in the already tortured flesh of his thighs like sharp instruments, further lacerating the already torn meat. He was worried one of them might cut its femoral artery, and tried to hold as still as possible. But it was impossible to be still. For Prell it was the beginning of an odyssey of movement and pain that would continue for two months and carry him halfway around the world to the Army hospital in Luxor. And the pain part wouldn’t end then. He had put one of his BAR men back as rear guard and the other out front, to try to fend off any Jap patrols hunting for them. Luckily they did not meet any head-on. As they got nearer to their own lines, the trail branched out into a series of parallel trails and transverses that the Japs had built to supply their now-abandoned line. Here he could maneuver a little and give them the slip. Twice they hid, as talking Jap squads moved along nearby parallel trails looking for them. But the fatigue-blouse stretcher under Prell’s legs was beginning to be soaked with his heavy bleeding. He went halfway out and came back several times. When they got within hailing distance of their own line, they decided they had better take a chance and yell for help.
A reinforced patrol with a medic in it came out to cover them while the medic worked on Prell and strung a plasma bottle on him, and then escorted them in, to everybody’s vast relief and delight. At the battalion aid station the battalion surgeon looked at the legs and shook his head. Dolefully. He crudely splinted the legs to keep the femurs from working any more and had Prell strapped on a regular, real stretcher to be jeeped out. For Prell this was the end of it, and he knew it, at least with this outfit. He would probably never see this outfit again. There had been times when he had hated it, and every person in it, but now he hated to leave it. As they hung him on the body-loaded jeep, he kept his face set. He was flown out the next afternoon. The battalion commander gave the whole squad the morning off, to come down and see him. That did not sound as if anybody suspected him of misconduct.
It had not been a lucky patrol. All the same, Prell knew he had done everything right and correctly. He had done everything
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