From his height only a hundred feet above the trees, the pilot could see two people running over the ground below – one coming out of a wood, another through a gate in the rustic lane, clinging on to his hat as he ran. Their goal was a long brown tent, set against a hedgerow that marked the border of a field.
Under the canvas, by the light of two kerosene lamps hung from a wooden pole, the surgeon raised a man’s arm above his head. ‘Hold this here.’ A nurse gripped the wrist in position.
‘Name?’
‘Heideck,’ she said, lifting a tag with her free hand. ‘Initial, A.’
The surgeon’s fingers numbered the ribs. ‘Four… Five. If in doubt, go high.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s go in here.’
A scalpel cut downwards, through a thin layer of fat and into the flesh. ‘Where’s the sister? I need someone to hold back the muscle.’
‘She hasn’t come. But I can do it,’ said the nurse. ‘I can secure his arm like this, look. Then my hands are free.’
She tied the wrist to a tent pole with her belt and put her fingers in the intercostal space. ‘Is that all right?’
‘If in doubt, aim posterior,’ the surgeon said.
‘What?’
‘I’m talking to myself. My old instructor in Graz. Don’t pull, don’t pull. Just lift. Keep it out of my way. I’m going to put my finger under here, into the pleural cavity.’
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