The Last Romantics

We Can't Save Them All

They came in droves, the first wounded men of the war. Their numbers were already uncountable, their ailments untreatable, and Musgrave was hopeless to do anything but watch as the men fell onto his operating table, leaving only to die in their cot off somewhere in the back end of the war hospital. He wasn't trained for this, not entirely. He had finished medical school just three months before the war broke out, and now here was his first practice experience, here was his first taste at handling a man's life in his hands. Oh but even a skilled doctor would be hopeless in some of these cases, a skilled doctor might not be able to do anything but stare. And in Musgrave's case, well perhaps he was right on par with such helplessness. Perhaps he too, could do nothing. Yet he tried, he cut and he sewed and he bandaged. He instructed the nurses, numbed the patients, and took his scalpel to anything that didn't seem quite right. Before long he had a whole bowl full of discarded bullets, an entire mess of severed limbs, and a whole list of those who had died under his care. His main goal was to save them all; his secondary goal was to save more than he lost. Right now, well right now his ledgers could prove that he was no closer to achieving the latter than he was the former. Right now his nurses could attest to the number of hopeless cases presented before him, the number of dying men, delivered right to his doorstep as if with the sole intention of dying at his feet, as if someone was playing games with him, and trying to mar his reputation as a surgeon forever. For a moment he allowed himself a rest, leaning back against the bloodied operating table and peeling the gloves from his hands. The lights were quite harsh, and his ears were filled with the tortured screams of his patients. They were running out of morphine already, as the funds were spread thin with the efforts of feeding and housing each one of the men who wandered through their doors. He had to use it sparingly, now, only for amputations, only for the operations which would leave any man writhing and screaming in pain. The hospital was set up in a school, quartered off from the active learning and separated from all of the children who might not to want to see such grueling performances. Musgrave's operating table was in what might have been an old science classroom, with long desks so as to preform experiments, and a blackboard that still had the remnants of the last lesson taught. Atoms, it looked like. Oh how he wished he could go back to simply learning about atoms. Life seemed to get so much more complicated when they stopped teaching you things you'll never need to know. It seemed so much more complicated when they suddenly expected you to know the things you were never taught. The world was just...just so backwards.
"Doctor Musgrave?" called a nurse's voice, knocking first on the doorframe to call his attention away from his mind, back into the world of the living and the remnants of the dead.
"Yes?" he muttered in response, knowing of course when he was summoned that something had to be going wrong. For the most part he was left alone, save for when his surgical skills were needed.
"There's a new man come in, he seems to be a civilian." The nurse explained quietly.
"This is a military hospital, Molly. We can't be treating civilians." Musgrave growled, figuring they hadn't even the money to treat those enlisted in the King's army, much less every single one of his subjects.
"Well that's the thing, sir. He is dressed as a civilian, but he was found in the trenches. Caught a bullet in his leg, sir. It's bleeding quite badly." Molly explained. Musgrave hesitated, shaking his head in some exasperation. Why the soldiers had to bring this stranger to his hospital and not one better fitted for those not in uniform was beyond him, yet he couldn't ethically turn away a man seeking help.
"He's close to death, Musgrave." Molly added a bit more threateningly, as if that was a purposeful call to action. The doctor nodded his head, abandoning his smock and following the nurse down the long hallway to where the patients were being kept. They had chosen the sunniest classrooms to hold the men, as an exposure to fresh air will help to keep disease to a minimum and spirits up. Then again, it seemed as though despair had taken hold of most any man in this establishment, all writhing in painful consciousness or fallen into their own nightmares. Some nurses were swarmed around a bed in the back corner, one that had been previously occupied with the death of its last inhabitant. A new man lay on the bed; Musgrave could see his shoes sticking out from the mess of their white uniforms, stained almost permanently red. One of his feet strained and kicked, the other seemed to be sitting suspiciously still.
"Stop with the bandages, stop! We'll operate right away." Musgrave insisted, pushing the nurses aside and trying to unravel the fresh bandages they were attempting to waste on a hopeless case. The leg, for that was all Musgrave could see as of now, seemed to be shattered and useless. The entry hole was clear enough, positioned in the perfect spot to have hit the femur. Yes, the b one would be shattered and useless. If there even was hope to heal the leg naturally it would take much too long, the man would be sat in this bed longer than they could afford to keep him here.
"He'll need to lose his leg." Musgrave announced, deciding that would be the quickest procedure for everyone involved.
"Amputation, is that all you know how..."
"Do you have a better idea?" the doctor interrupted, turning now to face the nurse who dare contradict him. It was Molly Hooper, of course. The girl who didn't know what it meant to hold your tongue.
"No sir." She squeaked at last, though she fiddled with her hands as if she wasn't being entirely truthful. Well, if the girl did have a better idea it would have been wasted breath. Musgrave set his mind on amputation, and with a hasty jab towards the operating room he instructed the nurses to prep the patient for surgery. 'Prepping' meant nothing more than removing the appropriate clothing and explaining to the poor patient what was about to happen to them. There was nothing more they can do with the time and money constraints they were forced to endure. There was no process of sterilization, no regiment of anesthetics. He would be given morphine and a stick to grasp between his teeth, and the surgery would commence. As of yet the man had been silent, which led Musgrave to finally focus on the man himself, not just his leg. He finally allowed himself a look to the face of the creature; one who he thought must have been mute. Most men screamed but he, well he remained perfectly silent. And the look of him, well he looked just about as beautiful as could any wounded man, fallen into a cot with another man's sheets spread across the pillow, another man's blood stained upon the blankets. There was no time for hesitation and yet...yet Musgrave hesitated. He allowed himself just a moment of processing, staring down upon the stranger who lay so passive in the cot, with his dark curls stuck to his pale face with a thin layer of dried sweat. His face was strained but his eyes were open, great eyes full of colors unexplainable, staring towards his surveyor as if daring the man to say another word against him. There was fear evidence inside of his face, hidden deep between what he tried to maintain as a brave face. For a split second Musgrave wondered if it would be right to deprive such a creature of his leg, if it would be very Christian to disfigure what could only be one of God's most prized creation. And yet, yet the surgery was necessary. No special treatment would be offered, even to such things as him. Even to such beauties.
"To the operating room, then." Musgrave proposed, and like that a stretcher was wheeled to the side of the bed. The patient was loaded on top of it, still and silent, as if he couldn't quite process what was going on. As he was being transferred the nurses rushed to clean the pooling blood from the bed, trying to get at it before it soaked too deeply into the mattress. Musgrave led the way, listening to the wheels on the stretcher as they swirled madly, the nurses needing to correct the direction ever so often so as to make sure they didn't slam the strange patient into the wall on their way to the classroom. As the man was being loaded to the table Musgrave redressed himself for the procedure, sliding over his hands the gloves that were already stained with blood long past shed and arranging himself at his table of choice. He took up the surgical saw, looking down upon the man as he settled himself on the table, a pillow shoved under his neck for support and his fingers gripped down to the edges of the table, as if to clutch to counter the pain.
"Morphine, Molly." Musgrave instructed, gesturing to the man's tortured look. He set down the saw now, watching as Molly got the needle ready for injection and pulled up the man's shirt sleeve.
"You'll feel a pinch." She warned, and proceeded to jab the needle into whichever vein she pleased. The man hardly winced, though his eyes shot open wider, his fingers clutching harder... Musgrave stared down upon him, admiring the way his strained skin stretched so tightly over his bone structure, admiring the way fear presented itself upon such a pleasant face. He didn't want to hurt the man, though he felt a strong need to preserve him. He felt as though it was duty now, to keep him alive. Musgrave reached up ever so carefully, daring a smile as he felt along the man's chin, pulling his jaw down so as to help the nurse pry the stick into his mouth.
"Bite down." Musgrave instructed as the wood was worked between his teeth. The man obeyed, closing his eyes at last as his breath issued from around the wood, his lips stretched wide yet his beauty still overwhelming.
"Hold him down, nurses? Hold him down." Musgrave instructed, taking up his saw once more. The nurses took their positions, one stabilizing the leg of question, the others restraining his other available limbs. Musgrave couldn't risk the patient moving, lest his operation go horribly wrong.
"Amputating above the knee." Musgrave explained quickly, positioning the saw just so. It was a scene, perhaps out of some renaissance painting, when at last he began to cut. The patient went rigid, twisting what he could with his limbs restrained and pulling up his head in a scream, the first sound the doctor had heard from his mouth thus far. The first sound was a blood curling, soul shattering scream issued from the depths of the poor man's heart. He pulled his head up, his curls falling once more over his pale face, the stick clenched so tightly between his teeth he perhaps might splinter it between his jaws... He watched, now, as the saw deepened within him. He watched as the surgery commenced, and watched as they swatted his bleeding leg from the table and took up the needle, in an attempt to stitch back up the stump they had yet to be able to save. 

The hospital quieted around ten o'clock, when at last the nurses who were free to leave made their departure. The medicine had been handed out, the bandages changed, the patients were all still in their beds. The sound of weeping could sometimes be heard, or of humming to try to keep the spirits up. Though tonight they were silent. Musgrave was given leave as well, for his shift ended when the moon rose, though he lingered. The blood had been cleaned from his hands; the tools removed from his hands...though the memory of such surgeries stayed in his head for much too long. No deaths today, it was the first of such fortune in a long while. No deaths today, still with about two hours to go. He walked among the cots now, telling himself he was here to check on all of the patients and not just one. Though he found himself at the foot of the man's bed all the same, seeing that his handiwork had been covered by a blanket, a blanket that was yet to be stained. Perhaps that was a good thing. The patient was unresponsive in his bed, asleep or perhaps unconscious. His eyes were not open, though his face was contorted in a way that disallowed any sound sleep. He looked afraid, and if he wasn't completely passed out from the pain he must have been having the strangest nightmares. Musgrave allowed himself a moment to ponder the identity of the man, one of the only ones within this lot who wasn't wearing a sort of uniform. Had he been a spy, perhaps for the other side? As English as he was in complexion he may be German in sympathies, maybe he was silent so as to save his accent from being recognized? The things which had been found in his pockets were arranged on the table beside of him, what looked like a small journal and a silver cigarette case. As tempted as he was, Musgrave decided that he best not invade the man's privacy completely. The notebook may not be his to look in, not yet at least. Perhaps when the main regained consciousness, when he was well enough to speak to the doctor who may have saved his life, perhaps then he would feel obliged to share his story. As of now, however, Musgrave refrained. And the man stayed silent, as might have been expected from someone who had lived more in one day than any one man should prepare for in a single lifetime.
"Doctor Musgrave, are you leaving sir?" asked Molly Hooper's voice from the back. The girl was arranging her scarf around her head, prepared to leave for the night.
"Yes I'm just going." Musgrave assured quickly, jolting out from whatever thought process he had been caught in and turning to march down the rows of patients once more. Some stirred to have heard voices, but most stayed quiet, their eyes open and staring at nothing in particular. Someone coughed in the back, a cart rolled by past the window pane. Silence resumed.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you today, Doctor I understand that you have much more expertise than I, and for doubting you I am honestly ashamed." Molly admitted at last, as the two of them walked along through the empty hallways towards the parking lot.
"There's no need to apologize, Molly. Sometimes I am in the wrong, and I need someone to correct me. Being so in control it's honestly...it goes to the head. It makes one forget who they are, or rather who they wanted to be." Musgrave admitted gravely.
"War will do that to you, sir." Molly agreed. As they stepped outside the cool night air refreshed the man back to at least a pleasant state, remembering again who his audience was. He best not ramble to long about his personal feelings on the conflict, the conflict that seemed to have the whole world at war. Molly Hooper was too delicate a woman to be trifled with such deep pondering, too nervous of a creature to know just what state England was in when compared to their adversaries.
"Would you like a ride home?" Musgrave offered, taking the key to his car and noticing it was the only one present in the lot. It was not a surprise, really. Cars were much too expensive for nurses to afford, most women walked home these days. Even at the dead of night, well there were other things to worry about than crime. Most ruffians now had a gun in their hands, somewhere on the continent. The dark streets were safe of thugs, in the present moment.
"Yes please." The woman said with a little smile, nodding her head and adjusting her scarf so that it would not fall so much into her eyes. "It's not a long way."
"I know, Molly. Remember we do this every night?" Musgrave reminded her.
"Oh well...yes sir." She agreed quietly. And with that they clambered into the vehicle, not a notable word exchanged between them for the rest of the short night.