Doc had an unofficial system for categorizing the patients he had to deal with on the base. It ran from Category 1 patients to Category 3. It served no purpose other than to amuse him and give him something to think about while working, took his mind off the blood and the pain.

Category 1 patients where easy to deal with and where his most frequent “clients” – minor cuts, bruises and sprains sustained normally on base due to “recreation”, some category 1’s had holes and cuts – nothing life threatening – after a mission went a bit messy.

Category 2’s were more work and more equipment intensive. Bad wounds, the survivors of bad landings, bailouts in combat or severe “battle damage” sustained after a “hard day at the office”, requiring lots of meds and often, emergency surgery. Category 2’s often had a long recovery period, if they were lucky to actually survive to have one. You needed a store of professional detachment to deal with them, especially as you did tend to get a bit too close to the pilots on a small base.

Category 3’s were possibly the easiest to deal with. In one way at least, if not in others. These took even more professional detachment for Doc. Basically it was a job of taking bits of metal out of bits of meat. Separating the remains of a plane from the remains of a rabbit. A rabbit you may have had lunch with two days ago. Then the remains would be prepared for burial. If there were enough.

Doc shook his head and sat forward out of his slumped position behind his desk. He looked out of the window of his internal office and into the main ward. Only one bed was occupied, filled with a category 2 patient. A friend. Still in a coma but getting stronger, just not waking, as if they were waiting for something. Not even responding to the shifts of young pilots that would come and sit and talk, and in one instance, chatter merrily while fighting back tears.

Doc sat back and sighed,

“Come on Boss, let’s see some action. Wake up dammit”.