The mine had detonated only about six or seven feet from where the French soldier had been standing, and he’d taken the full force of the blast.
Because it had exploded in mid-air, most of the ball bearings and shrapnel had torn into him at waist-level. He was still alive, just, but Dawson knew immediately that there was nothing anyone could do for him.
A virtual lake of blood surrounded his body like an obscene red halo; his left arm had been severed at the elbow and lay a couple of feet away, and his right hand was missing. But the worst injuries were to his midriff, and they were going to kill him, if he didn’t die first from the massive blood loss from the ruptured arteries in his arms and torso. His stomach had been ripped open, his intestines shredded and torn, most of them lying outside what was left of his body.
The soldier was lying on his back, his eyes open, his breathing shallow and rasping in his throat. Blood caked his face and bubbled from his open mouth.
Not even the most talented team of surgeons in the world, in the best-equipped and most modern operating theatre, would be able to save his life. In a field on the Franco-German border, three British soldiers clutching a basic field first-aid kit stood absolutely no chance of doing anything useful.
But still Dawson was determined to try.
‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured softly, the quiet grief in his voice making the expletive sound almost caressing. ‘Poor bastard.’
He turned to the soldier standing behind him, who was wiping traces of vomit from his mouth. ‘Give me that kit,’ Dawson ordered. He grabbed the first-aid pack from him and pulled it open. There were bandages, pads, tape, tourniquets, scissors, sutures and a range of other medical supplies in it, barely adequate to cope with even one of the French soldier’s multiple wounds.
‘What are you going to do?’ Watson asked, the shock evident in his voice.
‘Put a couple of tourniquets on his arms, try to slow down the blood loss. There’s nothing I can do about his stomach wound.’
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Dawson muttered, unconsciously lowering his voice so the fatally injured man wouldn’t hear his words – though it was doubtful if he had the slightest awareness of his surroundings.
‘Then do nothing, Eddie. That’s the best thing. He’s still losing a lot of blood from his arms. If you stop that, he’ll just last longer, which means he’ll suffer even more. The kindest thing you can do right now is just let him die.’
Dawson nodded his head slowly. ‘You’re right – I know you’re right, Dave – but I can’t just stand here and watch a man die and do nothing.’
Watson looked at the hideous shape – an object that just minutes earlier had been a fit young soldier – lying on the ground. Then he turned back to Dawson. ‘I don’t think you need worry now, Eddie. He’s stopped breathing. It’s all over.’
Dawson, too, looked down, but Watson was right. The man’s chest had stopped moving, and there was a sudden stillness about his features that told the story. His eyes were still half-open, and Dawson bent forward and gently pulled the eyelids closed.
‘Poor little sod,’ he muttered.
‘Come on, Eddie. There’s nothing we can do now, but there’s still that French soldier over there we need to sort out.’
Dawson tugged his gaze away from the dead body and turned round. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’
He switched on the mine detector again and took a step forward, careful to keep within the safety lane Watson had marked out.
‘We’re coming to get you now,’ Dawson shouted, and it looked as if the French soldier – who was about thirty yards away – understood his words because he nodded.
Then he took a single step backwards, probably just to change position after remaining in one place for so long, and looked down at his feet, a puzzled expression on his face.
Dawson caught the glance and in that instant guessed what had just happened. ‘Down! Everybody down!’ he yelled, grabbed Watson by the shoulder and pulled him flat onto the ground.
‘What the fuck?’ Watson asked.
‘That French soldier. I saw his face. He’s just stepped on something. He’s triggered another mine.’
‘Eddie, why hasn’t it blown up? It must be about three or four seconds since you –’
There was a bang from directly in front of them, and both sappers instinctively flattened themselves even more, hoping against hope that the main charge in the mine wouldn’t ignite. Or that if it did, their steel helmets would offer their heads some protection.
Another massive explosion shook the trees, and a fusillade of shrapnel flew in all directions as the mine detonated.