Doc does his work on the suffering Pvt Monroe. The lacerations are so numerous and deep that it would take a full surgical team many hours to do the necessary life saving work. So he does what he's trained to do - what the Med-Corps calls Cure Triage: preparing the wounds by removing foreign objects, settling splintered bones together, and generally reassembling a body as much as possible so the maximum amount of healing magic from a cure spell can go into the life-saving repairs, and isn't burned out doing the things that the surgeon can do. This also involves making hard decisions, and in this case, in involves bathing the wounds on the chest and neck with pos-gel and the wounds on the arm withneg-gel. When the lizardman comes to, reptile eyes wide and confused, he hears Wolf's voice enjoining him to use the emergency measures in his ring. He weakly clenches the hand with the ring on it and hisses out a gasp as mild divine light flickers from it, up his arm, partially sealing the wounds of his torso and critically, unseen, repairing the organs within enough for him to live. What he doesn't know - what Doc does know - is that the hand on which that ring sits, along with the arm it is attached to, will have to be amputated after the battle. The bones and sinews within can be supported with a sling and splint and splint now, but a reconstruction on that level us beyond the expertise of modern medicine even with the aid of curative magic.

"D-did we get it? Iss it dead...?" He puffs, talking deleriously to avoid cringing constantly at the pain in his body.
"It's run off," offers Catchell. "The bomb you pulled out went off with the corporal's grenade, and did the trick." This isn't the whole truth, but it's kind to offer to the critically wounded soldier. Ssassten will live - but he's not much use to you now, and is best left here in cover while your group continues its effort to secure the victory in the battlezone.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the cliff, K'ral looks down. A sea of olive drab heroes are grinding against the grey-and-black defenders, including dozens of small, previously hidden trenches in which semi-elite Krieger trench warriors are holding back the tide. Those, K'ral surmises, were probably up here holding these trenches, but forced forward by the aggression of the amphibious landing. That's probably why you've met so little resistance. But all those warriors are too far out to make out individuals.

...But below you, down about 80ft of prohibitively steep cliff, you see a mangled machine gun nest, and the contrasting shapes of the largest, and smallest officer in Echo company. Lt. Bathory and Pvt. Gamble are hunkering in the ruins of the next they have apparently cleaned out, with half the sandbag wall facing the beach sheared away by the flammenwagon that tumbled off the cliff earlier and continued on all the way to the beach to explode below.