"Finally, one of those fools have realized that their wounds will not dress themselves," he'd muttered, before launching into a grizzly account of the many legs he'd amputated, and why he'd done it, and how you know where to mark your amputation, so that the rot did not spread.
For the first half, most of the terms that the man had used had sounded like a foreign language to Oliver, but once he started interweaving his own stories as a battlefield medic into the mix, Oliver had sat up in his seat, eagerly enraptured, making mental note of all that the man had said, being quite sure that he would need such knowledge himself one day, if he was to lead an army, and keep his men well.
As the man spoke, Oliver even found himself asking questions, which drew more heads his way.
"How do you judge how long the wound will take to heal?"
At first, the man had seemed surprised that he'd spoken at all, but with a grunt and glint of his angry eyes, he gave a swift answer.
