“Take off his boots first.”
At Ruan’s words, the soldiers carrying the stretcher stopped. There was no bleeding wound, no mark where a spear had pierced him. But the new recruit on the stretcher was chattering his teeth, unable to catch his breath. His lips had turned blue, and his wet boots had frozen to his ankles.
Sera brought a knife.
“I’ll cut the laces.”
“Cut the leather too. Those boots aren’t going back on him.”
The recruit cursed under his breath. He said his boots had cost three months’ pay. Ruan supported his ankle and pried the leather apart. The socks were stuck to the skin. He did not force them off. While warm water was poured over them to thaw them, he pressed the back of his hand against the color of the instep.
“Do you feel anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
That answer was worse. Ruan held out the marker board to Sera.
“Redo the heating line. Any soldier who comes in wearing wet boots gets his feet checked before his weapons.”
The supply officer by the entrance stiffened. He was the attendant of a noble knight. Behind him hung two fur-lined blankets.
“The blankets have already been assigned. They are the knight’s belongings.”
Ruan spoke as he wrapped the patient’s toes in cloth.
“This man’s feet are dying.”
“That is the medic’s concern, and supply allocation is mine, is it not?”
“If his feet rot, he won’t be able to lift a spear. Give me the blankets.”
The attendant could not answer. Karen had stepped between them. She did not draw her sword. She merely glanced down once at the attendant’s feet, still in wet boots. He averted his eyes and untied the blankets.
Sera placed a new tag on top of the blanket. Instead of a name, she wrote the condition first. High fever. Cough. No sensation in toes. Wet boots. Seat near heating. Rank was pushed to the back. Because of that one line, several people inside the tent looked uncomfortable.
Ruan did not look at their faces. He thawed the recruit’s feet slowly. He did not use hot water. If they were warmed too quickly, the boundary between dead flesh and living flesh would be damaged further. The bowl of water was changed three times. Each time, the steam was weak, and the wait was long.
“More patients are coming in.”
Orte spoke. Outside, coughs came one after another. Soldiers who did not seem injured but whose eyes were unfocused sat down in turn. Winter reduced their forces more quietly than any blade.
Ruan looked at the records board and gave orders.
“Move the braziers away from the center. One near the entrance. One beside the line for wet boots. Don’t put them by the heads of lying patients. It will make their breathing worse.”
“Changing the brazier positions requires permission from the supply warehouse.”
The supply officer spoke again. This time, even Eisen’s adjutant looked troubled.
Without taking his hand from the recruit’s instep, Ruan answered.
“If we wait for permission, the toes will die first.”
His voice was quiet, but it carried far inside the tent. Sera was already moving the brazier stand. Bern dragged in a sack of coal from outside, cursing.
“Who told you to change it again?”
“I did.”
“Then it must be right. Move. You’ll burn your hands.”
Bern grumbled, but he was the first to move. Two soldiers followed him and lifted the brazier. The traces of icy water on the tent floor were pushed aside. A line for hanging wet socks appeared, and empty boots were lined up upside down.
It was past noon when Eisen received the heating arrangement chart. The staff officer disliked placing requests from the medical tent on top of the ledger for combat supplies.
“If we give boots and blankets priority, the transport of arrowheads will be delayed.”
Eisen pressed down on the chart Ruan had sent with his fingertips. The number of men waiting with fever was larger than the number of combat casualties. Those suspected of frostbite had been marked separately with red lines.
“The feet that will fire those arrows come first. Approved.”
With that one sentence, the warehouse doors opened. But the road to the tent remained long. Soldiers slipped while carrying wet blankets, and some tried to hide dry blankets with their own squads. Karen checked name tags at the warehouse entrance. Sera left charcoal marks on the corners of blankets. Orte wrote down the return times.
Ruan kept looking at feet. Someone coughed, and someone else raved in fever. He felt their throats and divided those who could swallow water from those who would choke if forced to eat. Warm broth was transferred into low bowls. For soldiers whose hands shook, Sera held the spoon for them.
Toward evening, the first recruit moved his toes.
“Can you feel them now?”
“A little. It feels like needles stabbing me.”
“That is good pain. Endure it.”
The recruit tried to smile and swallowed a sob instead. The surrounding soldiers let out small gasps. Someone tried to say Ruan’s name. Ruan immediately lifted his head.
“If you have time to say names, change his socks.”
The soldiers hurriedly moved. It sounded like a scolding, yet strangely, it brought relief. Once they knew what they had to do, the fear grew a little smaller.
By night, water had pooled beneath the line of boots. Droplets fell at a steady rhythm. Listening to that sound, Ruan received the next roster. Twenty-two at risk of frostbite. Eight with high fever. Five soldiers with deep coughs. They were not combat casualties. Even so, they were names that could disappear from the front tomorrow.
Sera held out a bowl of broth.
“Eat.”
“Later.”
“There is no later.”
Ruan took the bowl, but he did not manage even one sip. Another cough sounded from the entrance. He set the bowl down on the table, dipped his hands into warmed water, then pulled them out at once.
Karen looked at the bowl. A thin film of fat was cooling on top of the broth.
“Ruan.”
“I have to look at the feet first.”
Karen said nothing more. Instead, she moved the bowl closer to the brazier. Sometimes, keeping it from growing cold was the only thing one could do.
As dawn drew near, the recruit who had come in first spoke very softly.
“My toes hurt.”
Only then did Ruan close his eyes and open them again.
“That means they’re alive.”
The recruit twitched his feet beneath the blanket. Water was still dripping from the empty boots. Ruan could not smile. For every drop that fell, another name had been added to those he would have to check again tomorrow.
At the morning report, the supply officer mentioned the loss of boots first. Seventeen pairs of boots had been cut apart. Five blankets had been returned late, and two more sacks of brazier coal had been used than planned. As he read the numbers, he tried not to look toward the medical tent.
After hearing the report, Ruan drew another line beneath the boot loss table. Sensation recovered in toes: twelve. Amputation deferred: six. High fever worsened: three. Deaths overnight: one. The numbers spoke of different things. Boots had been lost, and feet had remained.
“What should I write as the reason for the loss?”
The supply officer asked.
Ruan thought for a moment.
“Preservation of forces.”
“There is no such reason under the boot category.”
“Then make one.”
The supply officer’s face hardened. Eisen’s adjutant took the chart from the side. Without a word, he wrote preservation of forces in the reason column. That single line was small, but it changed the grammar of the warehouse a little.
During the day, more soldiers came in after taking off their boots on their own. Even those who had mocked it at first checked the color of one another’s toes. One soldier tried to hide a sock with a hole in it and was caught by Sera. Sera did not scold him. Instead, she stood him in front of the box of spare socks.
“Take them.”
“They aren’t my share.”
“If you die, you won’t have a share.”
The soldier accepted the socks. He was about to say thank you, then looked toward Ruan. His face showed that he was swallowing the words god of the battlefield. Sera spoke first.
“Don’t say it. Put them on and go.”
He lowered his head and left.
In the afternoon, a fight broke out over the heating line. A squad leader tried to place his own men close to the brazier. The new recruits on the other side were pushed back. Without stopping the hands with which he was treating someone, Ruan called Bern.
“Please put them in order according to the chart.”
Bern stood before the squad leader.
“Are your subordinates the only soldiers in this army?”
“They are the soldiers I’m responsible for.”
“Then be responsible for their feet first. Break the order, and I’ll cut your boots first.”
The squad leader backed down. Karen was watching from behind. The chart and the old man’s curses finished the work before the sword did.
At sunset, Ruan counted the empty boots again. There were more than the day before. The smell was terrible, and the floor was wet. But on one cot, a soldier with a blanket pulled up over his head wiggled his toes. He kept checking whether his feet were moving. It was as if that was the only way he could believe he was alive.
Ruan saw it and still did not smile. If he smiled, it might look as though everything was over. The fever was still circulating. Red marks still remained on the roster.
Sera reheated the cold bowl of broth.
“This time, eat.”
Ruan took the bowl and wrapped both hands around it. The warmth rose to his wrists, then stopped halfway. He did not let the pain show on his face.
Water dripped from the end of the boot line. One drop at a time. The soldiers changed their socks as they listened to that sound. That night, the greatest treatment in the medical tent was neither knife nor needle. It was handing out dry cloth at the right time.
Before the next shift, Sera stood in front of the soldiers holding a basket of wet socks. Cold steam rose from the basket. Someone covered his nose. Sera saw the hand and raised an eyebrow.
“If you hate the smell, dry them. It’s better than losing your feet.”
The soldiers could not laugh. She handed out socks in pairs and checked the name tags. Some socks did not match. Holes were patched with scraps of bandage. Prevention on a battlefield was always unsightly. Even so, that unsightly cloth protected flesh.
Ruan put his hand inside a boot and checked the dampness. His fingertips stung. He did not hide his aching hand behind his back. In the time it would have taken to hide it, he turned over the next boot.
“This line gets dried again. This line is discarded.”
“It’s a waste.”
“Feet are more of a waste.”
The words were short. That was why the soldiers understood them.
That day, Orte posted a separate preventive measures chart beside the death roster. It was an unfamiliar chart. But the soldiers checked their turn for socks in front of it. Beside the names of the dead, the order of living feet was posted.