He died.
Dr. Kennedy took the boots off Johnny and put them back on his own feet.
'Orderly,' he called out as he saw one on the veranda.
'Yes, sir?' Steven said brightly, coming over to him, a pail of diarrhea in his left hand.
'Get the corpse detail to take this one. Oh yes, and you can take Sergeant Masters' bed as well.'
'I simply can't do everything, Colonel,' Steven said, putting down the pail.
'I've got to get three bedpans for Beds Ten, Twenty-three and Forty-seven.
And poor Colonel Hutton is so uncomfortable, I've just got to change his dressing.' Steven looked down at the bed and shook his head. 'Nothing but dead —'
'That's the job, Steven. The least we can do is bury them. And the quicker the better.'
'I suppose so. Poor boys.' Steven sighed and daintily patted the perspiration from his forehead with a clean handkerchief. Then he replaced the handkerchief in the pocket of his white Medical overalls, picked up the pail, staggered a little under its weight, and walked out the door.
Dr. Kennedy despised him, despised his oily black hair, his shaven armpits and shaven legs. At the same time, he could not blame him.
Homosexuality was one way to survive. Men fought over Steven, shared their rations with him, gave him cigarettes — all for the temporary use of his body. And what, the doctor asked himself, what's so disgusting about it anyway? When you think of 'normal sex,' well, clinically it's just as disgusting.
His leathery hand absently scratched his scrotum, for the itch was bad tonight. Involuntarily he touched his sex. It was feelingless. Gristle.
He remembered that he had not had an erection for months. Well, he thought, it's only the low nutriment diet. Nothing to worry about. As soon as we get out and get regular food, then everything will be all right. A man of forty-three is still a man.
Steven came back with the corpse detail. The body was put on a stretcher and taken out. Steven changed the single blanket. In a moment another stretcher was carried in and the new patient helped into bed.
Automatically Dr. Kennedy took the man's pulse.
'The fever'll break tomorrow,' he said. 'Just malaria.'
'Yes, Doctor.' Steven looked up primly. 'Shall I give him some quinine?'
'Of course you give him quinine!'
'I'm sorry, Colonel,' Steven said tartly, tossing his head. 'I was just asking. Only doctors are supposed to authorize drugs.'
'Well, give him quinine and for the love of God, Steven, stop trying to pretend you're a blasted woman.'
'Well!' Steven's link bracelets jingled as he bridled and turned back to the patient. 'It's quite unfair to pick on a person, Dr. Kennedy, when one's trying to do one's best.' Dr. Kennedy would have ripped into Steven, but at that moment Dr. Prudhomme walked into the ward. 'Evening, Colonel.'
'Oh, hello.' Dr. Kennedy turned to him thankfully, realizing it would have been stupid to tear into Steven. 'Everything all right?'
'Yes. Can I see you a moment?'
'Certainly.'
Prudhomme was a small serene man - pigeon-chested - his hands stained with years of chemicals. His voice was deep and gentle. 'There are two appendices for tomorrow. One's just arrived in Emergency.'
'All right. I'll see them before I go off.'
'Do you want to operate?' Prudhomme glanced at the far end of the ward, where Steven was holding a bowl for a man to vomit into.
'Yes. Give me something to do,' Kennedy said. He peered into the dark corner. In the half light of the shielded electric lamp Steven's long slim legs were accented. So was the curve of his buttocks straining against his tight short pants.
Feeling their scrutiny, Steven looked up. He smiled. 'Good evening, Dr.
Prudhomme.'
'Hello, Steven,' Prudhomme said gently.
Dr. Kennedy saw to his dismay that Prudhomme was still looking at Steven.
Prudhomme turned back to Kennedy and observed his shock and loathing. 'Oh, by the way, I finished the autopsy on that man who was found in the borehole. Death from suffocation,' he said agreeably.
'If you find a man head first halfway down a borehole, it's more than likely that death will be due to suffocation.'
'True, Doctor,' Prudhomme said lightly. 'I wrote on the death certificate
'Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.''
'Have they identified the body?'
'Oh yes. This afternoon. It was an Australian. A man called Gurble.'
Dr. Kennedy rubbed his face. 'Not the way I'd commit suicide. Ghastly.'
Prudhomme nodded and his eyes strayed back to Steven. 'I quite agree.
Of course, he might have been put into the borehole.'
'Were there any marks on the body?'
