Dr. Bradshaw continued to tighten the tourniquet, but he could not stop the blood that was spurting from her arm. Giles placed both hands about the incision in her forearm. He squeezed hard, but warm blood only gushed up between his fingers. “I lanced her other arm this morning,” Bradshaw said, “and had no trouble stopping it.” Her name was Greta Bundt. She might have been fifty. Her arms were plump and her face was the color of bread dough. Sud- denly her body convulsed, two, three times, her arm ripped out of Giles’s hands and blood spewed everywhere—and just as sud- denly she sank back on the cot as though pressed down by some enormous phantom weight and she became absolutely still. Soon the blood stopped pulsing out of the wound in her arm. He could feel warm blood running down his face, and below his waxed coat his trousers were soaked. Her eyes were open, unmoving. “She’s gone,” he said. 233 j o h n s m o l e n s He looked up and saw that Marie had stepped inside the tent.
