Triage

"Doc! We got some more!"

Major Kevin Mathurin looked up from the operating table, his hands still moving by muscle memory, slowly pulling a fragment of shrapnel out of the bloodied head of a Gilgamesh Free Army soldier. Setting the piece down on a side table, he looked at the nursing student across the table from him. "Bandage him up and clear the table." he said, backing away and pulling down his mask as he moved towards the source of the voice.

"How many more? We're packed in here." he said.

A Sergeant looked over his shoulder at him, then wheeled about. "Too many. Ten more soldiers, 6 peppered with shrapnel and concussed from an artillery burst, 2 with more grievous wounds, one with a torniquet we applied. And one pilot, ejected from his jet, shattered his left leg on ejection."

Mathurin motioned over to a medic. "Sergeant! Get the six men with relatively minor wounds outside, administer first aid to their shrapnel wounds, cover the eyes of those with concussions."

"Bring the pilot and three with grievous wounds here. What's the status of the one with the torniquet?"

"Relatively stable as a man who's lost his leg below the knee can be."

"And the pilot?"