Medieval Cliché
February 2, 1776, France, Tuileries Palace.
The American War of Independence was proceeding smoothly. There were reports of a few soldiers contracting tetanus from rust quickly forming on their iron helmets, and some companies being wiped out entirely by defensive cannons while advancing in tight formations. But seeing it all laid out in dry paperwork like this stirred no real emotion. No wonder they say generals start wars while soldiers bear the sacrifices.
"Terray. Coat the inside of the helmets with wood resin to prevent rust, and fashion flotation padding from leather and straps so they don't touch the head directly."
Helmets were a company-level matter. They had to look cool, after all.
"Making everything from leather will drive up costs enormously. What if we used cotton or paper instead?"
"Paper tears when it gets wet. Use cotton. Cost-effectiveness is key."
In the end, we'd have to foot the bill ourselves, so we couldn't ignore practicality entirely.
Hmm...
"Hmmm..."
"What troubles Your Majesty?"
What troubles me? Everything, that's what.
"Disinfection. Is it being properly reported? Why are there more fatalities than wounded? It should be making a difference."
"I'm no soldier, so I wouldn't know. But I do consider the reports meaningful. Writing down the names of the wounded and dead—that in itself honors their memory, does it not? The fallen can rest easy knowing that. And recording exactly where the wounded were injured? That's a revolutionary idea."
"Why's that?"
"So we can protect those spots, naturally."
True enough, the records showed an overwhelming number of limb injuries. But that didn't mean arms and legs were being targeted specifically.
"Terray. This is a list of the wounded. Those hit in the body or head by bullets or shrapnel end up on the fatalities list."
"Shall we analyze causes of death as well, then? The Church will object."
"To what, exactly?"
I knew dissecting bodies drew backlash, but analyzing causes of death?
"It's probing the hand of fate, is it not?"
"This is fate?"
Ha.
"Terray. Listen well. God is like the sun, is He not?"
"Yes, indeed."
"God is like the sun. Staring at Him blinds you."
To think a lowly university clerk in his twenties grasped what this man hadn't.
"Let there be light? Is that it?"
"Precisely. Blindness. The brightest light erases all shadow and contrast."
I walked to the window, gazed at the sun, then closed my eyes.
"Shut your eyes after staring at the sun, and its afterimage lingers on your eyelids. Plato spoke of it, remember? See other things first."
Then I shaded the sun with my palm and looked at the sky.
"The Bible tells not God's story, but Jesus's."
My gaze shifted from the heavens to the streets of Paris below.
"God is like the sun. Even gazing at the sky around Him remains a tale of the stars to us down here on earth."
The glittering heart of Paris unfolded before me, Notre-Dame Cathedral standing unrivaled in its splendor amid the rest. There on the Île de la Cité, that island at the city's core.
"Stare at the sun, and you go blind. Fix only on the heavens, and you make no progress. But stare solely at the ground, and you miss the carriage approaching from afar."
Ideals and reality. Pessimism and optimism.
"That's why we always look ahead as we walk. At the ground a little ways off, and the sky above the horizon. Of course, we might trip on a stone now and then, or get caught in the rain."
On the earth. Beneath the sky. Between them, humanity dwells.
"But that's just because I didn't spot the protruding rock, or failed to see the rain clouds. It's not some fated tumble on the path or sudden downpour."
People die someday, just as suicides hasten what comes anyway. My fate is mine alone. Not God's.
"The Qing have a saying: 'Exhaust human effort, then leave the rest to heaven.' Do your utmost as a man, then trust the skies. Heathens who call themselves Sons of Heaven and claim divinity, sure—but don't we have something to learn here?"
Thus, reform.
Not revolution, where everything crumbles and is rebuilt from scratch.
Not reinventing the wheel.
"Terray. Send Enlightenment scholars to the volunteer corps. Give them disinfectants, bandages, clean surgical tools. No amputations. Officially, at least."
Reform that adds new materials and shapes.
I might not know what wheel the future holds, but I'd at least seen rubber tires.
"Send Enlightenment thinkers to America. Let them moonlight as doctors and do as they please. Their one role: become battlefield medics who save the wounded. Tell them it's the path from the brilliant darkness of the Dark Ages to the radiant era of reason."
And 18th-century rubber was just toys or bouncy tree sap.
*
May 1776, near Boston, hills around Charlestown.
In Boston, where the American War of Independence raged, the butterfly effects of Louis XVI's actions rippled outward. But America wasn't the only one feeling them.
"Medic! Militiaman hit by shrapnel in the gut!"
"Get three bottles of liquor down him!"
Enlightenment scholars, now battlefield medics, roamed the post-battle field treating the wounded.
Boston should have fallen long ago by rights. Tens of thousands of militiamen, suspiciously well-equipped volunteers—if not for the cannons—could have overwhelmed it with sheer numbers under George Washington.
But now, there was no need for reckless human-wave assaults. They could afford a sure, methodical siege.
"Wash your hands with liquor! Lucky break—only two fragments in the intestines. Recorder, note this down. We'll save him this time."
The medic sliced open the militiaman's side, extracted the embedded shrapnel. Blood poured, but he worked swiftly, rinsing the organs with liquor before suturing the torn intestines with thread. Food matter leaked from stomach and bowels, but another bottle of liquor washed it clean. Closure was rapid. Months of operating on dozens daily had honed their skill.
Skin-level fragments came out one by one with forceps, rinsed with liquor, then stitched. The whole process: under two minutes.
"Soldier. You alive?"
The medic slapped the drowsy militiaman's cheek. He stirred groggily.
"Uh, wha?"
"Back to sleep, then. You'll hurt like hell when you wake."
Confirming he was out, the medic turned and hurried elsewhere.
"Recorder. Perfect this time?"
"Nearly. When you pulled the last skin fragments, blood sprayed a bit."
"Damn it. Skin has vessels too, you know."
"I'll note it just in case."
These battlefield medics groped toward human anatomy through trial and error. Treatments unimaginable back in France.
"Medic! Chest gunshot!"
"Can't save that one!"
Sometimes, they erred. But progress marched on.
*
That evening.
"Looks like we've saved everyone we could."
"No. Far more we couldn't."
With triage done, the medics gathered in their tent to exchange thoughts.
"What if we prioritize? Treat limb wounds later, guts and head first."
"Ranking lives now?"
"Easy. The limb cases become wounded reserves anyway without treatment. We can't ignore the dying to patch sprains."
"Fair point."
Free from the Church's gaze, they forged their own code of medical duty.
"How about classifying as imminent death, expected death, and salvageable? Triage."
"Too wordy—someone dies mid-sentence on the field. Just Minor, Serious, Fatal. Serious die without us. Minors limp on. Fatals are goners."
"Agreed. For Fatals, skip treatment but honor their noble end?"
"How? Hold their hand?"
Here, unbound by old dogma, they crafted their own rites of farewell.
"Raise the helmet. Show them our faces."
*
June 16, 1776, near Boston. Bunker Hill.
Their unspoken pact spread like the scent of rain clouds—swift, insidious.
Post-battle, medics and militiamen scoured the field for wounded. For Fatals, they saluted with raised helmet, revealing their faces, and offered liquor to ease the pain. Serious cases got immediate care. Minors walked if their legs held; otherwise, they were carried to the medical tent.
This battle had felled unusually many British, so they finished all militia wounded before sunset.
"Hey, Hugo. Time to spare... just rest?"
And for the first time in ages, they began to think.
"Chug booze and crash. Sky's bruising purple. Guess this is the 'sin' priests yap about."
Staring at the strewn British corpses around Bunker Hill, an irresistible temptation stirred.
They locked eyes, communicating in silence.
"Hugo. Same mind? Meet at tent two."
This French Enlightenment volunteer medic loaded three intact British bodies onto a cart and wheeled them back to the medical tent.