James got to the truck.
Six men were coming out of it. Two carried a third with a bandaged head. A fourth was trying to walk on a strapped leg. The driver was trying to restart the engine.
"*It's not going anywhere!*" James shouted at him. "*Leave it!*"
"I've got radios in the back! And the—"
"Leave it!"
Brennan got there with four men.
"Right," said Brennan. "Into the ambulance. The ones who can't walk. Can it take them?"
The ambulance driver leaned out. "Two more. Two. Not three."
"Then two in the ambulance and one in the back of the jeep. Where's the jeep?"
"Gone on."
"Then the third one goes on somebody's back." He turned. "Ganner. Can you carry him?"
The man with the strapped leg.
James got him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. His stitches went. He felt at least two of them go at once, and something warm under the dressing. He kept the man on his shoulder anyway, and turned toward the road south.
"Radios," the driver was saying. "Sarge, the radios—"
