American Medicine: I survived the death knell thanks to the devil.

Chapter 451 Battlefield Commander

A tin shed was built right next to the outer wall on the west side of the warehouse in the tolerance zone.

The shed was made of corrugated iron sheets, about three meters square, with no windows, only an iron door. A chain lock hung on the door, the lock cylinder rusted shut, indicating it hadn't been opened in a long time.

There were seven propane cylinders piled up inside.

The burrito and barbecue stalls in the tolerance area all rely on these gas cylinders for fuel. The larger ones weigh fifty pounds, and the smaller ones twenty pounds, standing tall and short against the wall. Next to them are piles of cardboard boxes and bundles of plastic wrap, as well as two folding tables.

The tin shed and the warehouse shared a wall. The fire on the warehouse's exterior wall spread along the seams of the wooden trusses, forming a continuous fire. Heat seeped through the thin corrugated iron sheets and steadily entered the shed.

It was getting hotter and hotter inside the shed.

The cardboard box closest to the wall gradually turned yellowish-brown at the edges and developed fine wrinkles.

A few seconds later, a wisp of white smoke appeared, followed by a few more seconds, when flames leaped up and quickly climbed up the walls of the container. The plastic film shrank due to the heat, bulging out like water bubbles, and then began to melt. The molten plastic dripped onto the ground, trailing flames, and thick black smoke rose up.

The fire had already reached the gas cylinder.

The closest object to the fire was a fifty-pound gas cylinder. The white coating on the cylinder kept bubbling up and bursting, revealing the gray metal underneath.

The liquid propane inside the bottle expands when heated, and the pressure slowly increases.

The seven gas cylinders still stood upright in the flames.

The iron railings in the Z-shaped passageway have been removed.

The officers McNeil brought used crowbars to pry open the welds and pulled the two fences off their bases one after the other, dragging them to the side of the road.

The passageway was nearly doubled in width, allowing two stretchers to pass side by side. The body, which had been lying at the bend, was also brought out, covered with a coat, and placed on the curb.

Local gangs are also trying to minimize losses for their members, carrying the first batch of wounded out of the passageway. With not enough stretchers, some people have to lie on dismantled folding tables, carried by two gang members, one in front and one behind.

Evans and two paramedics provided initial treatment to the injured on the north side, while the people in the second ambulance were busy unloading supplies.

Lynn crouched down next to a woman with a chest wall contusion, pressing one hand against her ribs while tearing off the bandages with the other.

While bandaging himself, he quickly took stock of the manpower and vehicles that could be mobilized at the moment.

Fourteen police officers, two ambulances, and a dozen gangsters who were not seriously injured were still carrying the wounded in the passageway.

The firefighters haven't arrived yet.

The fire was still burning, and there was no water, no firefighting equipment, and no professional rescue personnel at the scene. Four or five hundred people were still trapped inside, and with every meter the fire advanced, the chances of rescue for each person decreased.

Red police lights illuminated at the eastern intersection.

Three fire trucks drove in one after another. The ladder truck was in the lead, followed by the pump truck and the heavy rescue vehicle. The reflective strips on the red truck bodies flashed, and the iron walls of the container flickered with light.

Before the ladder truck had even come to a complete stop, the driver's cab door was already pushed open. The first person to jump down had broad shoulders, and the reflective strips on the cuffs and knees of his firefighting uniform were half-worn away. Dressed like that, he was either a team leader or a veteran who had worn out his firefighting uniform several times in the fire.

After landing, he bent down to check the seal of the air mask, then straightened up and glanced at the tolerance zone.

Thick, black smoke billowed from the base of the column. The white light from the LED emergency lights shone through, illuminating the collapsed scaffolding, crushed chairs, and the wounded being carried out one after another on stretchers.

He yelled in frustration, "They just told me to bring the people I have with me? This is like asking for at least a Level 3 certificate!"

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According to the standard for a Level 3 alarm, nine fire trucks, more than fifty firefighters, a battalion commander, and several special operations units should arrive.

He brought only three cars and fifteen people.

"The pump truck is going to collect water!"

He turned around and shouted, "Find the nearest fire hydrant!"

"There probably aren't any working fire hydrants around here. You should try your luck at the intersection of 113th Street and Third Avenue." McNeil walked over and pointed north.

The pump truck immediately turned around.

The lead firefighter strode towards the checkpoint exit: "Who's in charge here?"

A police officer approached. "Dr. Lynn is in charge of on-site command—"

"doctor?"

"The order came from our 40th Precinct Chief. Everyone on site is under his command."

Firefighters are in charge of command at fire scenes. Once firefighters arrive, the highest-ranking fire officer on site must take over – this is a rule stated on the first page of the New York Fire Department's operating manual.

His name was Herman, the captain of Ladder 51 Squadron, and he had spent most of his life fighting fires in East Harlem and the South Bronx. Now, a police officer told him to listen to a doctor here.

He immediately wanted to find the doctor and take over command. The firefighters were risking their lives to enter the fire. If command was handed over to someone else and something went wrong, who would be responsible?

He looked up at the checkpoint exit.

Stretchers were being carried out continuously, and paramedics were already in position. The scene was chaotic, but the passageways were being managed, and injured people were being taken care of as they were carried out. Those responsible for transporting the injured and those responsible for receiving patients were all busy with their own tasks, without crowding together or scrambling for space.

In such a chaotic scene, people have already been assigned to help.

He walked over and announced the takeover, a statement that could be made in just a few words. But what would happen next? Firefighters and emergency services would clash, firefighters and police would clash, and when the special forces arrived, they would clash with the regular squadron.

For every minute a group of people argued, the fire continued to burn. In the end, when problems arose, it was always the people doing the actual work who took responsibility.

Let's go over and hear what the doctor plans to do.

He continued walking forward.

Lynn had just stabilized a woman's ribs and straightened up. His coat was stained with blood and dust, and the blood on his gloves had dried and formed a dark red crust.

"Are you the doctor they were talking about?"

"Yes, my name is Lynn. How many men did you bring?"

After finishing, he paused briefly, waiting to hear how the doctor would arrange things, and also prepared to hear a few layman's words.

Lynn walked toward the gap in the passage, explaining the situation inside as he went, and Herman followed.

"The people are mainly trapped in three places. The stage area is due south, about 150 meters from the entrance, and there are at least two or three hundred people there."

The warehouse was located to the west of the stage; the fire started there and was spreading towards the stage.

A stretcher was carried out of the passage, and the two men stepped aside to make way and continued walking forward.

"There's an open area on the southwest side of the warehouse where dozens of people are lying. They've taken drugs and are completely immobile. They can't be woken up or walked; we have to carry them out one by one. There are also people living under that row of tin sheds on the east side, but we don't know exactly how many."

Hearing this, Herman had already planned half of the search route. This doctor's explanation was clearer than many fireground commanders. Much better than those officials.

Lynn stopped in front of the gap in the passageway, turned to look at him, and said, "You know more about firefighting than I do. I'll handle medical care and manpower dispatching here; firefighting is up to you."

That statement sounds somewhat sincere.

Hermann had never encountered a commander who would say such a thing to him.

Terry, the mid-level gang leader who had just been leading the group, walked out of the passageway.

"Who's in charge of the situation inside?" Herman asked.

"Him." Lynn pointed to Terry.

Herman looked Terry over carefully, then felt relieved, took off the mask hanging around his neck, and put it on his face.

"I'll go in and take a look first."

He waved to the firefighters behind him: "Frank, Peterson, come with me. The rest of you, set up ladders and inspect the exterior structure."

The three people strode through the gap in the passage and disappeared into the dust.

The second Hope Trauma Center ambulance opened its back door.

A Black man of medium build jumped out of the carriage; the Hope Trauma Center logo on his dark blue uniform was still fresh. As soon as he landed, he took two boxes of emergency supplies from the vehicle, handed them to the nurses who followed him out, and then dragged another box down for himself.

It was Eli Ward, a first-year resident in the emergency department of the Hope Trauma Center.

He is also a former first responder with extensive experience in on-site first aid.

He was accompanied by only three nurses. Hopefully, the trauma center hadn't yet completed its emergency triage process, and the transfer plan the mayor had promised to coordinate was still in the approval process. Evans had done everything he could to spare such a small number of people.

Eli opened the first-aid kit, took out four different colored plastic triage tags—red, yellow, green, and black—and stacked them in four piles on the ground.

He walked straight to the nearest wounded soldier, squatted down, and placed two fingers on the soldier's radial artery.

"Can you stand up?"

The wounded man shook his head; his right trouser leg was soaked in blood.

Eli observed his breathing, pressed his fingernails together to check how quickly the color was returning to his face. "Come on, shake my hand."

His grip strength was somewhat weak, but he was still conscious.

He tore off a yellow tag and hung it on the injured soldier's collar. Thirty seconds later, it was time for the next one.

Each wounded person has only thirty seconds. Detailed diagnosis and treatment can wait. Right now, we need to prioritize the most serious and urgent cases.

Those who can still walk are marked in green and classified as having minor injuries.

If the person cannot walk, but their breathing, pulse, and consciousness are normal, they will be flagged as yellow. You can wait a while.

If the patient is breathing rapidly, has a weak pulse, or cannot understand instructions, display a red warning sign and take immediate action.

If there is still no breathing after the airway is opened, hang a black sign.

With limited manpower and resources, we must prioritize those most likely to be saved.

Within three minutes, Eli had arranged the triage next to the checkpoint exit.

Each of the red, yellow, and green zones is cared for by a nurse.

He worked in the New York Fire Department's emergency medical services for nine years, witnessing everything from gunshot wounds and stab wounds to drug overdoses and building collapses. He could triage people in mass casualty situations with his eyes closed.

Lynn glanced in his direction, then turned to find Evans.

Evans was putting a makeshift respirator on a man who was having difficulty breathing when he heard footsteps and looked up.

"Go back to the hospital."

"What?"

"You're the attending physician on duty in the emergency department, so focus on your management responsibilities. The trauma center hasn't even finished triaging patients yet, and the injured here are already being sent over. Someone has to make decisions about receiving patients in the emergency room, preparing for surgery, and arranging for the ICU. If you stay here, there's not much more you can save. Go back and get all these arrangements in place so that the injured who are sent over can begin treatment with maximum efficiency."

Evans handed the respirator to the nurse beside him and stood up to look at the gap in the passageway. Stretchers were still being carried out one after another.

"Can Eli handle things on his end?"

"Why do you think I would hire such an older resident? Nine years of excellent emergency medical experience is invaluable on the front lines."

Eli has already treated the seventh wounded.

Evans ran towards the ambulance. The door closed, the siren sounded, and the red and blue lights quickly disappeared into the night.