“Calm down now son, we’ll find your sister,” Walter said, purposely leaving out any mention of the reality of the situation - if his sister wasn’t among those gathered now, she most likely hadn’t survived. “Just let us take care of you.”
He rested his hand on the man’s uninjured shoulder, patting him gently, trying to ease him back down in the other man’s arms.
“What I need is for someone to give these wounds a good clean. It looks like you’ve cleaned it some, but there is still sand and dirt here in the arm, and along the edges. Take the peroxide, soak a cotton ball and wipe them out. Don’t press down, but brush,” he demonstrated with his empty fingers, making short, quick gestures that would flick matter out, rather than grind it further in the wound.
He motioned to the bottle and the cotton wipes for whoever was willing, “Then when you’re done with that, rummage for some dry, clean clothes and apply them to the wound. Light colors would be better so you can see when they need changed.”
He replaced the shelf in his kit, and returned the scissors to their holder, “Now, as for whoever here as the strongest stomach,” he turned and pointed down the beach where the man with the puncture wound still sat, the lucky angel who found Walter’s kit with him, “that man needs surgery if he is going to live. It won’t be hard," he laughed at himself in his mind, surprised how confident his voice sounded when he was actually so unsure, "but it will be bloody. I need to open him up a little more, find what’s bleeding in there, and suture it shut.”
He knew all this might be too much for people whose minds and bodies were still overwrought from the crash, but it was necessary. He was also conscious of the blonde woman and her camera, darting back and forth between faces. It made him scowl, but he said nothing.
“I’m going to need someone to hold equipment for me, to hold the wound open so I can work, and someone to use rags, or I guess” he glanced at the suitcases washing up on the sore, “more clothes, to soak up the blood.”