"Goddammit, you heard me!" Colonel Hampton roared. It was Slaughterhouse
Hampton, whose service-ribbons started with the Indian campaigns,
speaking; an officer who never for an instant imagined that his orders
would not be obeyed. "Get a tourniquet on that man's leg, you!" He
moderated his voice and manner about half a degree and spoke to Vehrner.
"You are not the doctor, you're the patient, now. You'll do as you're
told. Don't you know that a man shot in the leg with a .45 can bleed to
death without half trying?"
"Yo'-all do like de Cunnel says, 'r foh Gawd, yo'-all gwine wish yo'
had," Sergeant Williamson said, entering the room. "Git a move on."
He stood just inside the doorway, holding a silver-banded malacca
walking-stick that he had taken from the hall-stand. He was grasping it
in his left hand, below the band, with the crook out, holding it at his
side as though it were a sword in a scabbard, which was exactly what
that walking-stick was. Albert looked at him, and then back at Colonel
Hampton. Then, whipping off his necktie, he went down on his knees
beside Doctor Vehrner, skillfully applying the improvised tourniquet,
twisting it tight with an eighteen-inch ruler the Colonel took from the
desk and handed to him.
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