Chapter 11: The Wounded at the Containment Station

Not understanding what was happening, he also stopped.

The whole Chanda fell silent in an instant because of the gunfire, just like when Jiang Anguo first arrived, dead‑air and gloomy.

"Look at your cowardice, you still have the nerve to call yourselves soldiers; what's the difference between you and bandits? Line up one by one, and if anyone doesn't line up, my gun won't spare anyone." Jiang Anguo's words just fell.

The bunch of broken soldiers honestly lined up.

"Remember, I am the th Division Major Company Commander, Jiang Anguo. From today on, this camp—meaning you—belongs under my command."

Jiang Anguo continued, "Start the meal."

Hoo.

The crowd boiled again, but this time no one dared to make noise; they scrambled to push into the pot.

No one dared to anger Jiang Anguo; one shot meant a headshot, four shots killed four pigeons.

Jiang Anguo found a step, stared at the people distributing food ahead, all of whom had already eaten.

Xiao Si handed Jiang Anguo his bowl.

At the end of February in Tengchong, it was still a bit cold, but the flashing sun was fine.

He felt the sunlight ahead was blocked, and Jiang Anguo was about to ask who had blocked his sun.

The newcomer was the courtyard's veterinarian, holding four headless pigeons.

"Good day, officer. I'm from that courtyard just now. I'm a military doctor named Hao Xichuan. Since I helped earlier, I was wondering if I could get a bit more food," the veterinarian said apologetically.

Even at such an age, speaking makes me embarrassed, but there's no choice; without food, people will die.

That's why the vet began by saying he had helped, hoping to get some food.

"You eat it yourself," Jiang Anguo asked knowingly.

"There are eight wounded soldiers in that courtyard who haven't eaten yet!" the vet said honestly.

Jiang Anguo's first impression of the vet was decent; the old man was kind, from Shaanxi, Xi'an.

Jiang Anguo nodded; he actually saw the vet helping, and at that moment he didn't stop it—more hands helping is good.

"Chen Shaoyun, give Hao Xichuan four portions," Jiang Anguo shouted.

"Yes, officer." Chen Shaoyun also didn't know why he obeyed the order.

"That's enough, right?" Jiang Anguo didn't know the wounded's condition, but he knew they couldn't eat too much at once.

The vet's smile surfaced, he nodded vigorously, "Enough, enough, thank you, officer, thank you, officer. Before they leave they can have a good meal, the kids are also satisfied."

Before they left, Jiang Anguo felt a bit sorrowful; if the Nationalist Army had American Army equipment and logistics, even at a one‑to‑three ratio they could drive Little Japan away.

But many soldiers fell before the War of Resistance Against Japan was won.

Wounded soldiers were almost impossible to treat; not to mention a single Chanda, and Chongqing as the main base had even more wounded camps.

There were simply no spare medicines; to treat them meant letting them fend for themselves.

"Xiao Si, go help and deliver it," the vet said, having only two hands, it was hard to carry.

"Thank you, officer," the vet expressed gratitude again.

"You're welcome; from now on call me Company Commander."

"Yes, Company Commander." The vet saluted Jiang Anguo properly, though he wasn't a soldier at all; you rarely see someone near sixty enlist, and the vet was actually fifty‑six, already a venerable age.

The only thing he missed was his son, who in fact had died on the Central Plains battlefield.

But people always need a sliver of hope.

Jiang Anguo thought, he still had ten Medical Packs, so he turned back, found a corner, took one out—a green backpack with a big red cross.

Inside were many items: Sulfonamide, Hemostatic Powder, Yunnan White Medicine, Quinine (Golden Chicken), Penicillin, Morphine, Malaria medicine, Panicillin, tourniquet, gauze, Scissors, scalpel.

Each was a ten‑person portion.

"Hao Xichuan, this is a Medical Pack. See what you can use; it contains ten‑person worth of medicines, the instructions are inside, remember, don't misuse," Jiang Anguo shouted.

Hao Xichuan was stunned, looking at the officer's backpack, "This can't be real, who would care about this bunch of broken soldiers?"

"Officer—no, Company Commander—it's real," Hao Xichuan asked.

"How? I could still deceive you. The Medical Pack has Sulfonamide, Penicillin; just read the book to use them. Also, call Meng Fanle from your camp, tell him I have business with him," Jiang Anguo said.

"Thank you, Company Commander, thank you, Company Commander." Hao Xichuan could hardly believe it; this huge bag of Medical Packs, not to mention using it to save lives, was practically a waste—people's lives were worthless in chaotic times.

The officer actually took it out; if you exchanged it for money, it could be turned directly into gold bars.

"Go save people," Jiang Anguo said calmly.

In truth he was far from calm; those wounded he dared not look at, because he'd never seen such illness. He'd seen modern cancer, but a gunshot wound has no cure, also a slow death.

Hao Xichuan slung the Medical Pack on his back, his mouth corners stretching to his ears.

Entering the courtyard, everyone was full, basking in the sun; when they saw the vet bring food again, no one stood up, because they knew the vet was bringing it for the wounded behind.

Another reason for not standing was sheer hunger; they tried to stay still, reducing movement so the stomach would feel hunger slower.

"Ugh, the officer is calling you over," the vet shouted.

Meng Fanle rested his two hands on his head and said, "What officer? I have no officer."

The vet crouched, set down the two bowls of food, then searched the Medical Pack and indeed found a box of Sulfonamide—ten tablets per box—and such Sulfonamide packs contained ten boxes, which he placed beside Meng Fanle.

"I'm going to feed the wounded. Meng Fanle, whether you go is up to you; see this is the officer's Medical Pack, it has Sulfonamide." The vet said, and didn't care about Meng Fanle.

The vet understood Meng Fanle; he would definitely go.

"What." Meng Fanle sprang up, and anyone might think his legs were fine; looking at the Sulfonamide beside him, he could hardly believe it.

He had spent five silver dollars to buy two Sulfonamide tablets, and now a whole box lay before him.

Sulfonamide powder can be sprinkled directly on wounds to prevent bacterial infection, while the tablets can be taken orally.

The vet still didn't know that Penicillin's effect was actually better than Sulfonamide; he hadn't examined the contents closely. He stared tightly at the huge Medical Pack, noting that these items could cost a life; ten of them still wouldn't be enough.

The vet actually did have medical skill; his ancestors were imperial physicians, though the knowledge hadn't been passed down.

When he was a civilian he hurried to the battlefield to rescue the wounded, then got swept into the tide of broken soldiers, donned a uniform, and became a military doctor.

His medical skill is odd—one third traditional Chinese medicine, one third Western medicine, and one third long‑standing illness turned into treatment. He has never cured anyone, so we call him a veterinarian.