Page 5 of Stranded with the Surgeon
Absorbing the reality of what had happened and where they were had taken only seconds, but the effect was an anchorage from which Jennifer could now function without distraction. Locking into the practice of what she was most competent to perform was a relief.
A way of taking back control in the midst of catastrophe.
‘Airway?’
‘Clear.’
Guy Knight was opening the red sports bag. Jennifer could see neatly rolled packages and caught a glimpse of cardboard splints lining the base of the bag as some items were pulled clear. She should take the time to use one to splint her forearm, but it didn’t actually hurt too badly anymore and she could wriggle her fingers and even make a fist without causing more than fairly tolerable discomfort. It was a minor injury compared to what the man on the ground had suffered and, as such, it could wait.
‘Has he been conscious at all?’
Jennifer stepped around Guy’s feet to get to the other side of their patient. The two-inch heel of her shoe caught between two rocks, but she ignored the discomfort the lurching movement provoked. She had obviously collected quite a few sprains and bruises, but hopefully the only broken bone was in her arm.
‘What’s his name?’
‘He was alert enough to get out of the plane by himself. He was obviously short of breath and said his ribs hurt, but it took a bit of convincing to get him to sit down while I went back to see about the rest of you. It wasn’t until I’d got Bill out and went back to check that I found him less responsive.’
He’d still gone back to help Jennifer out of the wreckage, however. She owed both these men the best she had to offer right now.
‘Name?’
‘Jim Spade. But he hasn’t willingly answered to anything other than “Digger” for as long as I’ve known him.’
Jennifer leaned close and rubbed a knuckle on the older man’s sternum. ‘Digger! Can you hear me? Open your eyes.’
The man groaned and his eyes opened briefly. He jerked his head and his hands moved, but any struggle to speak was clearly too much of an effort.
‘Breathing’s inadequate,’ Jennifer stated. ‘Do you carry an oxygen cylinder in that bag?’
‘No.’
‘Bag mask?’
‘No.’
‘Stethoscope?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Jennifer’s tone implied that he had, at last, provided an acceptable answer. She took the item from Guy’s hands and flicked off the leather jacket draped over Digger’s chest. It was only then that she realised why Guy seemed so inappropriately clothed for the cold temperature. He had been wearing this jacket over his T-shirt when he had boarded the small plane.
Digger had a woollen plaid bush shirt on, the buttons of which only opened a short distance.
‘Got some shears?’ Jennifer queried.
‘Don’t think so.’
‘We need this shirt off. I can’t see what’s going on.’
Guy leaned forward. He gripped the shirt at the base of the neck opening and ripped the heavy fabric apart as easily as if it had been a light cotton.
‘Sorry, Digger. It’s about time you treated yourself to a new one anyway.’
The T-shirt beneath was ripped from the hem upwards and they both stared at the exposed skinny chest for a moment as they assessed the chest-wall movement. Breathing was rapid and shallow. Then Guy pointed.
‘Look at that.’
‘Mmm.’ Jennifer gave no sign of being impressed at such rapid recognition of a life-threatening situation. ‘Paradoxical chest-wall motion.’
