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Suddenly there was a nip and bite of pain at his hand.
He grit his teeth as the blood pounded in his ears and he dropped his blue eyes to his glove. Cut clean through, the worn thin fabric caught on the chicken wire of the trench wall. Dürr had tried to move down the line, as though relocating himself might make the biting cold of the early morning go away. The only good thing about the cold was that the mud did not run like sopping water and had begun to freeze allowing for some solid ground to stand on. Weeks of rain that made the trenches flood and living unbearable, now, thank the Lord, the water was slowly draining away.
Dürr sniffed against the winter and carefully used his other hand to peel back the ragged edge of the glove which was starting to turn red. The open wound cut clean across the palm of his hand. Would this become infected? Had he just condemned himself
The Last Time I Saw ParisThe Last Time I Saw Paris
The sounds of gunfire and falling shells had started to fade for the evening, but the line of wounded coming in and going out, either patched as best as they could be or dead, seemed almost endless. The doctor was tired. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist so as not to smear blood across his face and tried to recall the last time he had gotten more then a few forced hours of sleep. He had lost his watch a week ago anyway. It was cold in Russia. He did not like sleeping in the cold; for fear he would not awake in the morning.
One invalid out, another coming in. The two stretcher-bearers brought the wounded man suspended between them over to the doctor.
"Friedrichs..." the doctor barked to the head stretcher-bearer, "put him down, hurry."
The doctor stood poised and waiting as he took up the instrument of his orchestra, a battered pair of tiny forceps. His dark eyes wer