Writing Exercise part 2

The silhouette of a man appeared suddenly in the clearing smoke. Against the ever-rising flames of the overturned tanker, the image struck a supernatural fear into the hearts of the attacking natives. Then suddenly the figure was gone, quickly forgotten as simply another event in the midst of a bloody battle. But the silhouette did not forget. It was medical officer John Watson who had emerged with a purpose from the armory; he couldn't bring his friend back to life, but he was sure he could avenge it. After collecting his bearings, Watson made his way around the lines of natives. As he snuck his way past patrols and groups of angry men, he wondered how they could have gotten this way. He had always been told that he was there to help and that the native people welcomed British aid. Obviously he had been lied to, a mistake he will not allow to be repeated. Noticing an opening, Watson tightened his belt, grabbed his revolver, and made a silent dash for a nearby tree line.

A brilliant ligh suddenly engulfed the revenge-bent officer. He heard the cries of nearby enmities, calling for aid. This was his chance, his opportunity to make a difference. If he could manage to take out the light operator and swing it around, he could expose the attacks of the invading natives. Watson reached for his revolver, but before he could grasp it, a sudden pain shot across his skull. 

John Watson awoke in a crowded field hospital next to a harried looking nurse who noticed his eyes open and said, "Ohngood you're up, now someone else can finally use this bed."

"How long was I out?" He questioned.

"Long enough to be an inconvenience," spat the rude nurse, "now get up, I wasn't having a laugh, other people need this bed." 

John looked back at the nurse with a blank stare. "Three days," said a voice from behind, "you've been out for three days."

John spun around in his bed suddenly. Could it be true? Could he really have been out for three days? "Did we win?" He asked the battle scarred soldier who had spoken before, "was it worth the cost?"

"We did win," replied the soldier, "at least as well as anyone can win in war. But the cost was great, the camp was in flames for two days straight, and the brigadier general was shot sometime through the second night. The natives seem to have given up. The only thing anyone's doing now is clean up; well that and patching up the wounded."

"I can help with that," exclaimed John, "I'm a doctor."

"I don't think you'll be doing much of anything mate," the soldier said, motioning towards John's legs.

"What are you on about--" started John as he quickly pulled the sheet off and exposed his legs. The left leg appeared untouched, but the right was wrapped tightly in blood stained rags. "My leg! What's heppened to my leg?"

To be continued