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Chapter 70

Field hospital

Gyulafehérvár


Isaac received the good news like everyone else, from General Headquarters via Morris Roth. Despite dozens of wounded soldiers still needing attention, everyone, even the wounded, paused to clap, cheer, and give thanks to God for a bloody, but well-deserved, victory. A victory that Isaac almost thought would never come, given how terrible the news had been earlier in the day.

Just a few short hours ago, his brethren on the southern battle line had fallen back in disarray, close to collapse. Something, or someone, had rallied them and now, the Joshua Corps and Silesian Guard were forcing the Wallachians back across the Maros. Brigadier Higgins and the Brethren APCs and their crews had apparently stopped a regiment of Janissaries and their fire tanks from reaching the capital. And now, word from the northern battle line indicated that the Moldavians had paused their assault and were falling back as well. How had it all turned so quickly in the Sunrise’s favor, Isaac couldn’t say, nor did it matter. Despite the severely wounded men around him, Isaac could not contain his happiness. He smiled from ear to ear and his face reddened with joy.

Was Christian all right? That was the question now. Several wounded had come from the northern battle line, but there had been no time to pause and ask for information. Too many wounded, too many responsibilities.

“Oana.”

She turned to him. “Yes, Isaac?”

He handed her a roll of gauze. “Will you please see to this man’s dressings? Wrap his ankle tightly and ask the orderlies to take him outside so that he may have some fresh air. I’ll be stepping out for just a moment.”

“Yes, Isaac.”

He removed his gloves, scrubbed his hands, and sprinkled cool water on his face. He stepped outside the tent. Like Krakow, the air was sickly-sweet with the scent of gunpower, a residual effect of war that he did not like. But the hospital tent needed to be as close as possible to the action without actually being in the midst of battle, so the smell had to be endured.

“You there!” he shouted at a mere boy who was talking to another cavalryman at his side. “You on the horse. What regiment do you serve?”

They paused their conversion. The boy looked to Isaac, said, “Second Regiment.”

“Are you well?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ve been helping deliver wounded from the front.”

“And how goes it on the front? How is Second Regiment?” Isaac asked.

The boy glanced at the other soldier, a wary look in his eyes as if he were afraid to answer. “It has been a while since I was there. But I hear it’s bad, very bad. That Moldavian airship came by and dropped a lot of firebombs on the whole damn charge.”

“What charge?”

The boy gestured as if the battle were close. “Mitzlaff’s and von Jori’s companies gave charge to Tatar cavalry hitting hard. Bombs were dropped. The whole damn area went up in flames.”

Isaac’s heart dropped. “And Captain von Jori. Is he all right?”

The boy shook his head. “I can’t say, sir. The whole situation is confused now. I hear that their airship has retreated, and the Moldavians army is falling back, but—”

“Take me there.”

The boy screwed up his face. “Doctor?”

“I said take me there. Right now!”

Isaac found himself reaching up the saddle and taking hold. He tried putting his shoe in the stirrups and pulling himself up. The boy tried helping but the awkwardness of the moment and the angle of his grasp made it difficult. “Doctor, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to go there. Everything is all—forgive my language—fucked up and—”

“I’m a chief medical officer of the Sunrise, sir. I’m ordering you to take me to see my patients—”

“Doctor Kohen!”

Isaac turned and saw Oberheuser there, his apron lousy with blood and bile.

“What are you doing?” the old surgeon asked, a confused, angry look on his dour face.

“I’m going to the front! I’m going to help Captain von Jori and anyone else that needs my attention. I’m going there, and you’re not going to—”

“Don’t be a fool, Isaac!” Oberheuser said, moving closer, anger overriding his confusion. “You can’t go there, young man. You have responsibilities here.” The old, grumpy doctor pointed to the tent. “We got men in there who need attention. There are medics at the front. They’ll take care of the wounded.”

“My friend needs me!”

“We need you, goddammit! Right now. Devorah, Oana. All of us. We can’t do this without you. You cannot abandon your post! Get your head out of your ass and grow up!”

Isaac had never heard such an expression. Hearing it come out of that hoarse, gruffy mouth made him almost laugh. An up-time expression, for sure, and quite medically impossible to begin with. How exactly could one insert one’s head into one’s ass?

Isaac chuckled and his stress bled away. He breathed deeply, rubbed his forehead, tried not to tear up. “You’re right, Doctor. My apologies. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He patted the boy’s boot and stepped away. “It’s okay. I won’t be going. But will you do me a favor and go there in my stead and see to the situation? It’s important that Doctor Oberheuser and I know what casualties to expect in the next few hours.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

He stepped back and let the boy go.

Oberheuser turned brusquely and stomped back into the tent, cursing all the way. Isaac stood there listening, for the first time in many, many hours, birds chirping in the nearby trees, a light wind blowing across the space between him and the tent, walking wounded loitering around the grounds. Distant sounds of war were muted now, save for a few cannons barking to the south. He turned his gaze north and saw several long streams of smoke in the hazy distance. Again, he had to bite back tears. What good would tears do now? As much as he hated to admit it, Oberheuser was correct.

Time to get my head out of my ass and grow up.

Isaac stepped back into the tent and got to work.

Moldavian army headquarters

East of the Moros River


Moshe Mizrahi frantically worked the signal flags as the Chaldiran lowered to drop its tether lines. The last rifleman who had helped them toss Sergiu Botnari to his rightful death dropped each line as men on the ground scrambled to secure the airship to posts in the field below. Then he unfurled the ladder. Moshe dropped the flags and leaned over the larboard side, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “Voivode Lupu is wounded! He needs attention immediately!”

Men on the ground scrambled away to find a physician, and Mordechai grabbed Moshe’s shoulder and turned him around. “We cannot stay here, Moshe. They’ll kill us, two god-condemned kafirs, just to have a scapegoat. We’ll die for sure.”

Moshe nodded, and whispered, “I know, but I’m not going anywhere with him still in the gondola.”

He pointed to Vasile Lupu who, surprisingly, was still alive, though the pool of blood soaking the gondola floor confirmed he wouldn’t be for long.

“We’re coming up!”

Moshe leaned over the side again and saw two men grab the rope ladder and ascended. The voivode’s personal physician was one of them. They reached the top of the ladder and Moshe helped them in.

The physician moved quickly to attend to Vasile Lupu, ignoring the dead Janissary guard crumpled in the corner. The armed man took up a position on the larboard side, eyeing Moshe and Mordechai warily. Moshe felt his heart sink. We’ve got to go now.

The physician put his fingers against Vasile’s neck, pressed his hand against his chest, checked for his breathing. He nodded. “He still lives. But we must take him down now.”

He motioned for the other man to assist, but Vasile was too heavy in dead weight. “You there,” the physician barked, “come and help.”

The rifleman slung his rifle over his shoulder and helped the physician and his guard carry Vasile to the ladder. It was a delicate matter to lower him to the ground, all shot through, his clothing all bloody and mangled. In no time, all three men’s hands were covered in the voivode’s blood. The big man nearly slipped out of their hands twice, but Moshe helped keep the limp body stable while they took to the ladder and slowly, slowly, lowered Vasile to the ground.

“You men stay here,” the physician’s guard shouted up to Moshe. “I will speak with you soon about this matter.”

Moshe nodded and watched them carry the voivode of Moldavia into a tent.

“Now!”

Mordechai moved quickly to untie each tether, the fore lines first and then the aft. The airship lifted when the last tether was dropped.

Moshe expected the camp to notice, to take up arms and fire at them as they raised up into the bank of clouds floating above. Two kafirs who had murdered their prince. But no. All their attention was on their wounded leader. Getting away was the easiest thing they had done all day.

“Where do we go?” Mordechai asked as he took the helm.

“To Wallachia,” Moshe said.

“Not the capital?”

That had indeed been a thought at one point: defect to the victorious side, if things got desperate. Things were certainly desperate right now, no doubt about that, but at what cost? Defect to the Bohemians and perhaps live a quiet, comfortable life in peace, and thus condemn their families to death.

Moshe shook his head. “To Wallachia. We’ll follow Matei Basarab’s retreating army across the border and throw ourselves on his mercy. He’s a fair man. He’ll speak on our behalf to the Sultan.”

Field hospital

Gyulafehérvár


The sun was setting, and the young cavalry soldier whom Isaac had sent to the northern battle line had returned twice already, with bad news each time. As he had stated earlier in the day, the area was chaotic, confused, nothing more than one big pulsing wound itself, as more dead men than alive were pulled out of the carnage. Thank God that the Moldavians were, indeed, retreating, but that didn’t keep men from dying.

Isaac stopped counting the wagonloads of dead soldiers. He tried focusing on those patients that he could help. Burns, burns, burns! The number of burn victims were sobering, more than he had ever seen in war before. Second- and third-degree burns were the most prevalent and the only ones they bothered to treat. First-degree patients were triaged outside the tent and sent away. Pain medication was running low.

“Isaac,” Devorah said behind him, her voice low, tired. Everyone had been going near nonstop since the first guns of the day had fired.

“Yes, what is it?” Isaac asked, finishing the stitching of a leg wound.

“Another wagonload of wounded from the north has just arrived.”

He waved her off. “You know the drill, Devorah. Line them up for triage as usual. I’ll be out directly.”

“Doctor Oberheuser has asked that you personally see to the triage of these men.”

Isaac groaned. That man! Insufferable! “Very well,” he said, finishing his stitching and turning around to follow her out, “but if these are all minor issues, I’m going to—”

The man sitting upright at the front of the wagon was one he knew very, very well, despite his charcoal-black face and ruined buff coat. Isaac’s heart leapt into his throat. He caught himself just short of running to the wagon with his arms open like a babe wanting his mother. Instead, he cleared his throat, straightened his collar, and walked calmly to the back of the wagon. He didn’t hide his smile.

“Did you win the war, Captain?”

Christian coughed, winced, and tried straightening up. “The battle, maybe. The war?” He coughed again and spit. “Too soon to tell.”

“I have a good mind to climb in and slap you across the face, my friend,” Isaac said, helping one of the wounded step out. “You are one of the most reckless men I’ve ever known.”

Christian tried to laugh but his pain was too great. He groaned, grabbed his side and leaned back.

Andreea stepped out of the tent. Unlike Isaac, she did not bother trying to hide her relief. She ripped her apron off and let it drop to the ground, ran to the front of the wagon, and threw her arms around Christian’s neck, hugging him tightly and repeating the same Hungarian words over and over into his ear: “Hála Istennek, élsz! Hála Istennek, élsz!

“Careful now, Andreea,” Isaac said, helping Devorah clear a path to Christian. “You can hug him later. We’ve got to get him into the tent and check those burns.”

There were many, but most were confined to his legs. Isaac checked them carefully. Second-degree, for sure. Then he saw Lieutenant Enkefort lying flat on the wagon floor, unconscious.

Isaac jumped in and checked Enkefort’s vitals, his breathing, his arm. “Get the orderlies to take this man in the tent,” he told Devorah, “and tell Oberheuser that he’s a priority.”

“Is he going to lose his arm, Isaac?” Christian asked, trying to lean closer.

Isaac shook his head. “I can’t say, my friend. He’s wounded badly. We’ll see.”

“Please do whatever you have to do to keep him alive.”

Orderlies came and carried Lieutenant Enkefort away. Devorah climbed in and together, she and Isaac helped move Christian to the back of the wagon. Another orderly assisted and they lifted him up and out.

Isaac could see the dreadful pain on Christian’s face as they moved carefully toward the tent. Andreea followed behind, whispering her Hungarian words and keeping her hand on Christian’s head for support.

“We licked them, Isaac,” Christian said, slurring his words as he wavered in and out of consciousness. “We licked them.”

“Good, good,” Isaac said as he helped the orderly lower Christian onto a table for further scrutiny. “Have I told you how much I want to slap you right now?”

Christian nodded. “Yes, I think so. Here’s my face.” He turned his head so that Isaac had a clear shot at his right cheek. “Slap away.”

Isaac chuckled. He leaned over and placed a light kiss on Christian’s forehead. “I’ll do it later, you reckless fool. Now, shut up and let me save you…again.”


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