“There’s nothing I can do for him.” “You goddamned well better do something,” I say, putting my hand on the grip of my pistol. It is a silly thing to do, typical of my hot temper and proclivity for melodrama. But it works. The doctor orders Powell to be taken into one of the tents. Half an hour later, the doctor comes out and says, apologetically, that Powell will have to be evacuated to the States. “I can’t figure out why he’s even alive. He’s got a body temperature of a hundred and nine degrees.” I ask what that means. The doctor replies that, in effect, the blood in Powell’s head is
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