I regained consciousness in an ambulance, my right leg feeling as if it were on fire. A bullet had struck my shin—I knew that much, and the chap who had field dressed it told me it was a compound fracture—the bone had broken through the skin—but fortunately it wasn’t shattered.
When I was carried into the field hospital, I had my Webley—Fosbery clutched in my hand, and I pointed it at the doctor. He stood there, a surgical cap on his head and a mask covering his nose and mouth, and what looked like a butcher’s cleaver in his hand. His eyes were a rich amber, and I peered intently into that foxy gaze.
“I’ve got two legs, Doctor. If I come out of surgery with anything less than the two, I will come after you, if I have to drag myself over hell’s creation, and I’ll have no qualms in shootin
