Fire: Chapter Three

Shivering violently, Shannon fought to stay focused. First priority: get help. Fumbling once again in her pack, she found her whistle and blew on it
as loudly as her chattering teeth would allow. She yelled at the top of her lungs into the chilly air: "HELP!! HALLO!! we need help here!" No response - just the dull echo of her own voice from the blank moors beyond the horizon. "Right," Shannon told herself. "4 minutes and counting, rescue breathing 101..."

Gently propping the man's head back and opening his mouth, she gave him two breaths, then turned her head sideways and listened for breathing for two counts, then gave him five breaths, then pressed with her index and middle fingers just to the side of his windpipe. Dammit!!! Still no pulse. Time to start CPR. As Shannon prepared to put her hands into position to begin chest compressions, a voice behind her barked an order. It was the sergeant-major again! "STOP!!!" She jumped, and looked around, half expecting to see her old XO. But there was no-one. Again, the voice rapped out a command. "What is the exception to the rule for CPR? You have five seconds to answer, cadet! Five, four, three...." "SIR!" Shannon snapped herself awake. "Hypothermia, SIR!" The voice died away, smug, into the mist.

Shannon silently cursed herself. Hypothermia caused the heart rate to slow to an almost imperceptible rate. Performing CPR in this case would be a fatal error. Rescue breathing would have to do. Four minutes until brain death, depending on how long he's already been in the water.... Another two breaths, then pause, then another five... pause for two counts, then five breaths, pause.... Shannon was losing her cool. "COME ON!" she shouted at her patient. "I know you're in there! Come ON! Don't die on me, dammit! wake up, DAMN YOU!" She slapped his face. "WAKE UP!"

Shannon gave another two breaths, and rocked her knuckles on the man's sternum, pinched his earlobe hard, then gave another five breaths. "Come on, dammit, you're young, you're strong, LIVE!" she shouted. She was still shivering, but for some reason she felt warm. Must be the adrenaline. Just as she was about to check his pulse again, the young man convulsed violently and began to choke up water. Quickly, Shannon rolled him onto his side while he coughed up practically half the lake.

"Thank God", Shannon said. "I thought I'd lost you." Panting for breath, the young man in the bizarre medieval outfit tried to speak, but only managed to cough up more water. "Don't try to talk, you're going to be alright," Shannon told him. But her thoughts were racing. He wasn't shivering, which was a bad sign. She could see that he was rapidly sinking back into unconsciousness. There was no-one around to help - she had to get him back to the cottage, or he'd succumb to severe hypothermia and probably die. Not to mention, that she was rapidly becoming mildly hypothermic herself! Shannon made her decision. Now all she had to do was convince her patient to co-operate.

"Can you hear me?" Shannon shouted at the young man, who was lying on his side, unconscious once again. She shook his shoulder and pinched his earlobe. "Can you tell me your name? What's your NAME?"

He shook his head and murmured sleepily, "Mi...chael."

 Right! Shannon wasted no time. There was the drill instructor's voice once again, but this time it was coming out of her own mouth. "MICHAEL!" she yelled in his ear. "GET UP!" She had to get him back to the cottage, stat.

"I can't..." came the whispered reply. He curled up into a ball.

"Oh no you don't!" Shannon was getting mad now. She was freezing, even if he wasn't. She pulled at his shoulders, realizing it was futile as he was a dead weight. Lightning struck her brain as she flicked the relentless rain out of her eyes - his clothes! They were soaked through and heavy as lead. Grabbing her trusty swiss army knife, she turned her patient over and started to rip through the sodden weave of his
clothing. "Look, I'm sorry about this, Michael, but I have no choice. I have to get you to shelter and this crazy get-up of yours is going to weigh us down considerably. It has to come off!" Michael made no objection, because he was already passed out.

Shannon's dad's knife made short work of the heavy cotton-knit costume, and she left it in a sad-looking pile in the mud. Now to get this boy on his feet. "MICHAEL!" she yelled once again. "GET UP!" The drill instructor was in fine form. "Get up, NOW! That's an ORDER!" Shannon grabbed his hand as he mumbled an inaudible response and started to struggle to his feet. "That's right, come on, we have to move!" She shoved her feet into her own boots and put her jacket onto him - although he was already drenched, with his undershirt and leggings dripping wet and his long hair plastered to his face - at least her dry jacket would help him retain a tiny bit of heat and protect him from the still pelting rain.

Shivering uncontrollably and leaning on her walking stick for support, Shannon let Michael hang onto her shoulders as she half-pulled, half-dragged him along. He wasn't much taller than her, which was a blessing. Whenever it seemed like he was falling asleep again, she would poke him sharply in the ribs with her finger and bark at him: "MICHAEL! WAKE UP! Keep walking! One foot in front of the other! That's an ORDER, soldier!" He mumbled something in her ear. "What? What did you say?" she snapped.

A very small, weary voice replied: "You don't have to shout."