James Jones - The Thin Red Line
All he could think about now was getting out of here. And yet, how could he? He had come all this way down here. And he had not saved Tella, and he had not shut him up. Nothing. Except to cause more pain. Pain. With sudden, desperate inspiration he leaped across the prostrate Rella and began rummaging in the dead medic’s belt pouches.
“Here!” he bellowed. “Tella! Take these! Tella!”
Tella stopped screaming and opened his eyes. Welsh tossed him two morphine syrettes he had found and began to attack another pouch.
Tella picked one up. “More!” he cried when he saw what they were. “More! Gimme more! More!”
“Here,” Welsh yelled, and tossed him a double handful he had found in the other pouch, and then turned to run.
But something stopped him. Crouched like a sprinter at the gun, he turned his head and looked at Tella one more time. Tella, already unscrewing the cap from one of the syrettes was looking at him, his eyes wide and white. For a minute they stared at each other.
“Goodby,” Tella cried. “Goodby, Welsh!”
“Goodby, kid,” Welsh yelled. It was all he could think of to say.