Liz Trenow - The Poppy Factory

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.