A Duchess in the Pacific

Fifteen

He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began.

-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Duchess lied in bed dreaming that she was dead. Her mother standing over her, with tears falling so aggressively that they landed on Duchess' forehead and splattered on impact. When Duchess woke the water was still there.

A leak in the tent.

Duchess grumbled to herself as she stared at the tent ceiling trying to find the crack. Eventually she gave up, got out of bed and pulled her cot further towards the middle of the room so that her pillow and mattress wouldn't get wet. The sun would dry the rain soon enough. When she began to get dressed she scanned around the room. She was normally the first one awake. She still enjoyed the quietness of the morning air. But as she finished getting dressed she noticed that somebody was missing.

Sherry.

Of course, Duchess thought as she exhaled. She stepped out of the tent and was thankful for the light breeze that pushed past her face and heavy curls. She closed her eyes and tilted her head to enjoy it for a few brief seconds. But suddenly she heard a panicked crash coming from the aide station. She immediately quickened her pace and ran for the tent and swung open the door to reveal a pale faced Sherry standing over a private who was convulsing.

The private had come in a few days ago complaining about an infected wound. Last night he broke into a fever, nearly 105. The wound on his leg filled with yellow pus and the area of the skin around the wound was nearing a fire hydrant red color. Duchess had chastised the private, asking him why he had waited this long to come get it checked, and what had he done in the first place to get the wound, and what had he done to cause the infection. Of course his reply was a simple,

"Just fucking stop the burning." And made little to no other efforts of conversation.

Now he laid on the cot, thick foam oozing from his mouth and flailing his appendages off of the spring mattress. Sherry stood, white as a ghost, on the verge of tears and breathing heavy. She turned to look at Duchess, forgetting her annoyance at her she looked at Duchess with desperation.

"I- I don't know. He- his leg it was so much worse. S-s-so I gave him something for the swelling and the pain. But I.. I don't know I must've grabbed the wrong vial. God, Duchess what do we do." She was frantic, barely spitting the words out fast enough for Duchess to react.

"Alright. Okay. Just go get the Lieutenant." Duchess ordered Sherry out of the tent.

First, and wasting no time, Duchess strapped down the privates arms. Then quickly went to the medicine cabinet and found the solution that she thought could work to save his life. Island sweat and morning dew pooling around her forehead and dripping from her neck down her back. She injected the medicine in his veins. Slowly, the private began to calm and stop thrashing. Duchess went about clearing the foam from his mouth and making sure he wouldn't choke on his tongue.

Sherry returned with Lt. Walters, who crashed her way through the tent and to the private. The island doctor followed her, still in a half state of dress. They both pushed Duchess out of the way to help the private. Duchess whose quiet morning had officially been disrupted, looked at Sherry. She was still breathing heavy, her lip quivering. Duchess stood over by her and was tempted to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder but ultimately couldn't bring herself to do it.

"I'm gonna get killed for this." There was such anxiety and fear in Sherry's voice when she spoke. She no longer cared about appearing superior to Duchess. The jig was up.