The Poppy Factory

‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’

It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.

Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’

‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.

Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.

Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.

Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.

Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’

The injured man’s eyes were a maelstrom of panic and fear. Even through the pallor she could see his well-made features: a handsome young man, perhaps in his twenties, with all his life before him. Like James. Like Scott. Come to think of it, he had a look of Scotty, with that mouse-blond hair and freckles all over his nose. He was breathing, fast and shallow: his airway was clear. She quickly took his pulse. It was faint, but at least it was there.

Airway okay, breathing okay-ish, circulation okay-ish. Where the hell is Dave?

It was only when she went to cover the end of the severed leg that she faltered. The shattered ends of the tibia and fibula bones glowed shocking pearly pink-white against a bloody mess of skin and flesh, like a leg of meat hacked by a crazed butcher.

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen this kind of injury before – in fact she’d seen it too many times in the heat and sand of the desert. She grabbed a pack of dressings, but when she went to lift the stump the man whimpered again and then uttered another long, loud, terrifying howl. Her head began to spin. That sound, that gut-wrenching primeval animal sound of a man in agony, the sound that Scotty was making as she worked so desperately to save him that day.

Get a grip, Jess. Don’t think. Get the leg wrapped and get up a morphine drip. Put the guy out of his agony.

But however much she tried to push it away, Scott’s face swam in front of her eyes. The young man’s groans were Scotty’s groans.

It was her first ever foot patrol in the desert, her heart pummelling inside her chest with terror and the effort of carrying the medical back-pack, at twenty-five kilos the weight of an average eight year old, as well as her own heavy body armour. Her head felt as though it was boiling inside her helmet as the group cautiously circled the edge of the village in the ferocious heat. No-one spoke a word as the searcher moved ahead, sweeping the dust with his long-handled detector to check for improvised explosive devices while the man behind him marked the borders of the cleared area with spray paint. Everyone else scanned the landscape for markers, piles of stones, wire or a piece of broken glass which might have been left as a secret signal to mark the position of a bomb or anything designed to divert their path towards a mined area.

They could tell the Taliban were close by, watching and waiting, because the place was deserted. The villagers were hiding in their homes and even the dogs had taken cover. The enemy would never show themselves, and knew quite well that the allied troops couldn’t fire a single shot unless they were fired at first. The tension was almost unbearable.

And then: an ear-splitting crack. Jess twisted round to see a geyser of earth erupting to the side of the patrol, just where they had passed. Someone must have stepped unwarily just a few centimetres outside the cleared zone – that was all it took. The screams of pain started instantly and, as she turned back, trying to run but encumbered by her heavy pack and body armour, the screech of yelled orders in her earpiece was almost deafening. ‘Medic! Medic! Men down, three men down.’ It was just like those training exercises, except this was for real. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

She heard Vorny puffing beside her and, as the clouds of soil and dust settled, the scene ahead appeared in almost surreal clarity. Captain Jones was lying beside the blast crater cursing loudly, clutching his right hand and covered in dirt. At least if he’s swearing he’s alive, she thought. Another man was seated, holding his face in his hands. Vorny paused to see if he was okay, and Jess lumbered on towards the Captain.

‘I’m fine, just get over there,’ he shouted, gesturing impatiently into the crater. ‘It’s Scott.’

The figure was almost completely obscured by the dust and rocks that had settled on it after the blast, but just then the soldier lifted his head and emitted a long and terrifying howl which seemed to echo off the mud walls of the compound behind her, reverberating through her very being.

She fell, rather than ran, down the sloping side of the crater and, when she picked herself up, the true horror of the boy’s injuries became apparent. The blood-curdling screams and streams of profanity meant he was certainly still alive, but both his lower legs were missing, vaporised by the blast. The village dogs would come scavenging later, she knew.

The earth around his lower body was already stained red with the blood gushing from the mess of mangled flesh and bone where his legs used to be. There were only moments to save his life. She ripped two tourniquets from her own upper arm, stored there for instant access and, with hands trembling so much she could scarcely grip the webbing, managed to secure one on each leg, above the knees. She glanced towards his face, pale as the sand dusting it. Even through his goggles she could see the panic in his eyes, darting from side to side, trying to focus. ‘Hang in there, Scotty,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you sorted.’

‘Jess. Thank Christ, it’s you,’ he whimpered, through gritted teeth. ‘Just save me feckin’ life, will ya? Get me home for Chrissake. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, you’re going to make it,’ she said, trying to convince herself as much as him.

Vorny slithered down the slope to join her and they worked together, wrapping the shattered stumps with white dressings, all the while talking to the lad, trying to calm him.

‘Nearly there. MERT’s on its way. We’re going to get you out of here. Hang in there. You’re going to make it.’

Vorny set up a drip into one arm and held the bag high, squeezing it to push the life-saving liquid into Scott’s system, while Jess pulled out a morphine autojet and punched a hefty dose directly into the muscle of the upper arm on the other side. ‘That’s it, Scotty. When you wake up you’ll be in Bastion,’ she said, as the howls tailed off into moans.

By now Captain Jones was on his feet but very pale and holding his hand gingerly, with the other lad, McVeigh, who was shocked and deafened, but otherwise unharmed. They’d identified a landing site just beyond the brown poppy field at the edge of the village. The helicopter was circling, just about to land, and she was heading across the field behind the stretcher team, carrying Scotty’s pack, when the shooting started. There was no cover, and it seemed to be coming from both sides.

She dropped to the ground, cursing the fact that any delay could cost Scotty’s life after all the work they’d done to save him. But as the helicopter turned away without landing, and the firing continued without any apparent response from their own side, she realised it was not only Scott’s life in danger. Bullets could slice through the brittle brown stems of the crop at any moment. The adrenaline rush that had kept her going throughout the time they’d been working on Scotty was dissipating, and she began to panic. It was then that she saw the red poppy.

‘Christ, Jess, what the fuck are you playing at?’

Dave’s shout, close to her ear, brought her instantly back to the High Street in the pouring rain, a scene painted in grey and red, the smell of blood, the young man’s groans, his shattered limb in her arms. She had absolutely no idea how long she’d been kneeling there.

‘Let me take over,’ Dave barked, taking hold of the leg and shoving her aside brusquely. ‘Just give the poor sod some morphine. Get a drip going and pump in some fluids, for Christ’s sake.’

Dragging herself back to the present, she stood and picked up her pack. Through the shattered glass of the shop window she could see an array of meat, liver, sausages, lamb chops, trussed chickens, all glistening with broken glass. The centrepiece was a large whole leg of lamb, the severed end pointing towards her, a neatly trimmed version of this young man’s leg. Like Scotty’s legs after that blast.

She forced her eyes away, searching the pack for a morphine syringe.

‘I’m just going to give you something for the pain,’ she said, squatting down by his head. But when she looked into his face she could see that he had gone, his eyes rolled back, his skin a deadly grey.

She shook his shoulder. ‘Stay with us,’ she shouted, shaking him harder. She pressed her finger to his neck.

‘No pulse, Dave. Christ, he’s got no pulse.’ She ripped open his jacket and shirt, and pressed the pads onto his chest. ‘Flatline.’

‘I’ll secure his airway,’ Dave shouted. ‘Start CPR, now.’

No, no, no, no, she muttered to herself, in rhythm with the pumps on his chest, like a mantra. Not again, not again. It can’t be, can’t be. Now, the rest of the world disappeared and the only thing that mattered was counting out loud the chest compression pumps: one – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight – nine. Eighty to a hundred pumps a minute for two minutes, a quick check of the pulse and then start again. Dave was squeezing air into his lungs from the bag now, twelve breaths a minute. If we keep doing this he will come back, she said to herself, I’ve seen it happen, just so long as we can keep it up.

Just as the muscles in her arms felt as though they would crumple with exhaustion Emma returned and took over for a while, and they alternated for what seemed like hours, all through loading him onto the ambulance and the crazy race back to the hospital; even as they were wheeling him into A&E.

The doctors declared both casualties dead on arrival. They were the young parents of the baby. The old man who’d lost control of his car and driven onto the pavement at forty miles an hour was completely unharmed.

When they got back to the ambulance station Dave said, ‘Want a coffee?’

She nodded numbly and followed him into the kitchen, barely aware of her surroundings, finding it strange that she could even breathe or put one foot in front of another when she felt so completely shell-shocked. He placed a mug of hot sweet tea onto the table in front of her but when she went to pick it up her hands shook so badly that she slopped it all over her uniform.

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘It happens to all of us, you know,’ he said, kindly.

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, it doesn’t happen to all of us, not like that. You saw me, Dave. I lost it again. Some kind of flashback thing. God knows how long it was before you arrived and took over.’

‘Only a few moments, I’m sure. Besides, you’d already controlled his bleeding.’

‘But the delay could have meant the difference …’ The thought was simply too enormous and too terrible to contemplate. She felt overwhelmed and exhausted; barely able to think straight.

After a long pause Dave said: ‘I think you need to take a few days off. Why don’t you ask Frank?’

‘Oh God, I couldn’t face Frank, right now.’

‘Do you want me to ask him for you?’