Phil was roused into semi-consciousness when the medic gave him a shot of morphine, removed the tourniquet, field-dressed his wound, and inserted an IV. McGarr and Abe lifted and carried him to the Jeep while the medic held the bottle of plasma. Together they carefully placed the stretcher across the back seat.[1]

“It’s a miracle you’re alive, sir,” the medic observed. “Not to mention the men you saved.”

Phil, awake from the movement, smiled. “Rule of War No. 26 is called ‘Miracles.’”

“Which is?” the medic asked.

“Resolute action by a few determined men is often decisive.”

“Damned right on that one, Larimore,” McGarr said.

Phil grimaced when the colonel’s Jeep hit a bump, causing an electric shock of pain to shoot up his leg. He was nearly unconscious when they arrived at the battalion aid station, where the medic started another IV.

His first visitor was waiting for him: General “Iron Mike” O’Daniel, who leaned over and whispered, “Helluva fighting man.”

Not anymore, Phil thought.

He saw that Colonel McGarr was still at his side, holding his hand. “We’ll get you fixed up,” the colonel promised.

“Yes, sir,” he weakly replied.

Phil was carried into the surgical tent, where Captain Charles S. Williams, a Regimental surgeon, introduced himself. In the haze, Phil recognized the other doctor, also in surgical scrubs: Captain Hilard Kravitz, the battalion surgeon whose life he had saved while crossing the surging Rhine River two weeks earlier.

Dr. Kravitz, grim and businesslike, took Phil’s hand. “The colonel called me up to help Captain Williams. He knows I owe you one, Larimore.”

The doctors explained some sort of procedure they needed to do with his right leg. Phil was pretty sure they’d give the wound a good cleaning, just like they had done with the injury to his right thigh six months previously.

Then a gas mask was placed over his face, and the bright lights inside the operating room turned to black.

~~~~~

Phil woke up inside a jostling truck. A medic gave him two shots; he assumed they were morphine and penicillin. He hoped that both shots were not morphine. He’d heard whispered rumors of terribly wounded soldiers given “terminal doses” of morphine when the medic was sure the man would not survive his devastating wounds. He could imagine they’d comfortably go to sleep—no more distress, no more agony, no more suffering. Was this happening to him? He whispered the Lord’s Prayer as he drifted off.

He awakened while being carried into a building on his stretcher—two men carrying him while another held up nearly-empty bottles of IV fluids, plasma, and blood.

I musta lost a lot of blood, he reasoned.

Then his thoughts turned darker.

My God! They’re not taking me to the morgue, are they?

He must have received a fatal dose of morphine. Before he could scream out, he lapsed again into oblivion.[2]

TO BE CONTINUED.

~~~~~

The entire series:

• April 8, 1945 (Part 1) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 2) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 3) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 4) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 5) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 10, 1945 (Part 6) — Phil Larimore the man that bullets could not stop

~~~~~

~~~~~

[1] Larimore, At First Light, 264.

[2] Larimore, Ibid, 264-265.

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Learn more about my book about my father’s heroics and exploits at Amazon’s First Light page here. You can also read more of my WWII blogs here as well!

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