Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Now she glances up from the manual to look around at the sun-blasted landscape, at the barracks nearby—one of which is reserved for the tiny number of black medical trainees and the few black doctors and nurses who do their training—and at the row of jeeps and civilian cars over by the HQ building, and then up at the sinister, tumbleweed-covered hills that seem to wedge the fort in.

Not that she is looking for Sergeant Green. She would have nothing to say to him unless it was to repeat her thanks, and Green rather intimidates Frangie, so she knows idle chatter is not a good idea.

Still . . .

She returns her attention to the manual. Unfortunately The Medical Field Manual does not contain any information pertaining to actual medicine. That is to be found in the somewhat smaller (seventy-eight pages) manual with the title Bandaging and Splinting.

Bandaging and Splinting is a real page-turner, heavily illustrated with drawings of everything from the “cravat bandage of eye” to “triangle of foot bandage” to the rather pretty “roller bandage” to the “basic arm splint.”

This is, without the slightest doubt, the most interesting book Frangie has ever read. As she reads and looks closely at the diagrams, she plays out the moves, winding and tying around imaginary arms, legs, necks, and heads.

Bandages should be applied evenly, firmly, and not too tightly. Excessive pressure may cause interference with the circulation and may lead to disastrous consequences.

This makes her laugh, though she’s not sure why.

“You find it entertaining, Private?”

Frangie looks up, shielding her eyes against the sun, spots captain’s bars on a shoulder, jumps to her feet—not easily done at a picnic table—and snaps a salute.

“Sir?”

He’s a black man, an actual black officer, stocky, not very tall, probably in his forties, almost totally bald with just a fringe of hair that looks like it’s doomed to continue retreating.

“I asked if you found it amusing.”

“No, sir. I mean, I guess I did, sir.”

He reaches past her, flips though a few pages in the book, nods. “This is good information. I assume you’re hoping to be a nurse.”

“No, sir. I’m hoping to be a doctor. But first a medic. I want to be a medic.”

“Do you?” he asks skeptically. “Has anyone told you what the job entails?”

“Entails, sir?”

He belatedly returns her salute, allowing her to put her hand down.

“You know, medics end up in bad places, Private. They end up in very bad places.”

Frangie shrugs with one shoulder—the other shoulder remembered that you do not shrug at superior officers. “I didn’t figure many colored outfits would be allowed to fight.”

That causes him to tilt his head and look at her appraisingly. “Well, that may be. Then again, it may not. I’m not sure the brass will always be able to keep colored units back like they did in the last war. But I can’t help but notice some up-to-date cannon and such appearing, and I doubt that’s just for show. Might be you’ll end up at the sharp end.”

“Yes, sir.” You rarely went wrong saying “Yes, sir.”

“You think you could handle that? Trying to keep a wounded man alive while you’re getting shot at?”

She starts an automatic “yes, sir” but stops herself. Something about this captain does not strike her as that sort of officer, the kind looking to be saluted and “yes, sir’ed” regardless of circumstances.

She takes a chance. “Are you a doctor, Captain?”

“Now what makes you think that?”

“I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

“Is it the somewhat unmilitary look of my uniform?”

Now that she thinks of it, his uniform isn’t exactly a model of perfection. There’s a small soup stain on his olive drab tie, his shirttail is trying hard to escape his waistband, and his boots are not boots. In fact, they’re carpet slippers.