"Valery Gorban. The taste of war " - читать интересную книгу автора

Winnie tosses off his helmet; streams of perspiration are running down
his face. You could work up a sweat doing this job!
I leap onto the running board and take a final look into the rear of
the truck. Head count - all here? Move out!
But then a plaintive cry comes from behind.
What's that? Why have they all begun waving? Two individuals are
kneeling and gesturing for to us to come over - and they are right in the
"center ring!" If this whole square were a shooting range, their location
would be the bull's-eye on the center target! Yeah, right! If you need us
that badly, make your way over here yourselves.
"Help, we have a wounded man here!"
True, a third man is lying behind them. His pose had bothered me from
the beginning of this whole mess, and now I see why. One of his legs is
broken at the shin and sticking out at an unbelievable angle, so that his
heel is almost touching his knee. And a dark puddle of blood is creeping out
from beneath his leg. This guy has taken a serious hit, and if we don't help
him, he'll die within five minutes from pain-induced shock and blood loss.
But how to help him?
"Bring him over here!"
"We can't - his leg will rip off!"
What a bloody story! Well, fuck him, why stick out our necks for his
sake! Get out of the vehicle, and you'll take a bullet instantly! If the
Chechen fighters are still there, they are hawking this guy, waiting for us
to take the bait. Yet how can we leave him? He's a human being and still
alive - at least, for now.
Oh, Mom and all my guardian angels, see me through this one!
"Cover me!"
I take a deep breath and make the icy plunge...
Now I know what a surgeon sees and how he feels during a high-risk
operation. My procedures are not as complex, but in this predicament... Some
Chechens crawl over to help, while others fire a burst over my head, but too
high. Why, to scare off their own?
Our Sniper Rifle responds, and a Kalashnikov adds a short repartee.
That is McDuck's work - he has an automatic rifle with an optical sight.
The wounded man whispers, "Just go away and leave me here."
"Shut up and breathe evenly."
A Chechen near me loses his temper and springs to his feet, waving his
fist and shouting something in his own language. The air is quiet, his voice
is loud, and it can probably be heard a long way off.
Well, I won't be distracted now. The whole world has contracted into a
small spot, as if illuminated by a searchlight beam at night. I keep the leg
of the poor devil before my eyes - the leg with the broken shin held on by
twisted, torn muscles and stretched skin. Pink bone is jutting out some five
centimeters beyond the flesh, and clotted marrow is hanging down. I'll need
to straighten everything out and put things together. That means one hell of
a lot of pain...
First step - apply a tourniquet below the knee. Blood gushes from the
wound as if it were a syringe. It's a good thing that my sleeves are rolled
up; washing them would be pure torture.
Now - promedol. Twist in the cap on the syringe and perforate the