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Frangie tosses the food tray aside, scoops up her pictures and unfinished letter, and races back toward the aid station tent It’s still standing, though it is coated with sand A jeep being used to transport wounded men has been blown up pretty well

There will be wounded

“Sorry, Doctor,” she says, rushing breathlessly into the tent where soldiers are now hauling their wounded buddies “I didn’t get coffee”

“Triage the inco,” Dr Frame snaps

Triage is the process of deciding who gets treated first There are three categories The “walking wounded” are low priority and will be patched up and sent back up to the line The “hopeless” cases will be shot full of morphine and left to die

The category of focus is on those hurt too bad for a patch-and-release but who iven proiethose ill be treated and those whoill be given e to the afterlife

Fortunately, only one soldier falls into this last category His shirt has been torn open, revealing a ed tear in his sto out, arteries pu the last of his blood away

He’s like one of the corpses she saw during training, one of the corpses after the ruesoans

“What’s your naeant?”

“It’s ot hurt” His voice belongs to a little boy

She draws his dog tags out Gordon, William T Blood Type A

“You’re going to be okay, Gordon”

“Billy,” he gasps He blinks at her, seems to realize that she is not hishis face into a frighthis limbs He cries out, a weak sound

The s fro colon

“You’re going to be okay, Billy,” she lies, and lays a wet cloth on his forehead “The pain will stop soon Shh Shh”