He’s pulled me into the ditch and is trying to stop the bleeding with the towel from his pack. I’m not mad any more but I’m not cooperating either. I can hear France screaming inside my head, like she did that night her father died, and I am matching her for breath and volume. I started up as soon as I saw the size of the hole in me and kept going as Duncan started pulling out the khaki and pouring iodine in it, pushing the inside of me back down. Even though we’ve all seen something like this before, it’s a bit different when you’re looking at your own; there are some things about the way you’re made that you really don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know, too, that a hole like this means you bleed to death fairly quickly or die of shock before anyone can do anything for you. I’m not keen on either of these, but I shut up now; try to: Dunc looks like he knows what he’s doing, and he’s just doing it anyway. He’s already sent off for me to be collected, and now he’s shoving a piece of wood between my legs, looks like a bit of window frame, and he’s tying them together with a length of rope.
