“Loosen the tourniquet,” he whispered. Bok complied. Blood spurted from the descending artery. Immediately Bok tightened the cord at his upper thigh. “No!” Nang ordered. “No. Loosen it. It must bleed more to keep healthy.” Again Bok complied. Again the spurt. Bok wheezed. His left hand was broken, swelling. His mouth hung haggard. The sprint fall through jungle away from Bu Prang, the blood loss, sapped him. His chest felt empty. To him his eyes seemed on the verge of caving in, falling behind his cheekbones. He could barely think. About them the battlefield was deserted except for the last of the dead, porters removing the dead, and rearguard snipers.
From their cover they watched a porter slip an ankle thong over dead shattered feet and drag the body away. The battle smoke had dissipate
