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They didn’t have enough medical supplies.
It happened, in war. They tried to bring enough with them, of course, but one couldn’t account for everything. Sometimes the battles went poorly. Sometimes there were unexpected environmental hazards. Sometimes the supplies got blown up or left behind, and sometimes the supply lines were cut off.
Barriss had some skill with healing, but the Force could only do so much; she could encourage wounds to heal, cells to fight against infection. But she couldn’t work miracles, only give these natural processes a push in the right direction. It could make all the difference in a precarious situation, but against overwhelming and widespread injury and illness, there was little she could do without supplies.
She was running herself ragged, and still more men died than lived. What little rest she could take was marred by the misery pressing into her bones, the suffering weighing down the air thicker than the smoke of the fires, the growing claim of death whittling away all around her.
Despair was one of a Jedi’s greatest enemies, but Barriss felt as helpless against it as she did all her other enemies. Droids were felled just to be replaced by ten times more; a patient saved just to watch another five take their last gasping breaths.
It was breaking her, bit by bit.
“No, no, commander. I’ll be fine. Help…help the others.”
“If I followed that direction every time it was said to me, lieutenant, I would never see to any patients at all,” Barriss said. “Let me determine the triage, and let me help you.”
Reluctantly, he let her examine him. But he shifted, trying to draw her attention away from his left arm. Barriss was not so exhausted as to be caught out by that, and she pulled away the armor and the underlayment to reveal a makeshift bandage. He winced as she started peeling it away from the skin.
The smell hit before the sight of it. It was a gruesome wound, no longer bleeding but oozing pus instead. Even the undamaged skin surrounding it was hot to the touch. A clear infection, which would only spread until the brain grew too fevered and the body went into shock. It must have been more than a blaster bolt; probably shrapnel from an explosion.
“Not much you can do for me, commander,” he said, with a grim but calm resignation.
“You should have come to the medics earlier,” she said, even though they may not have had the means to prevent the infection.
“Wasn’t so bad, earlier,” he said. “My brothers needed you more.”
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything more. Instead, she concentrated, listened to his body, to the Force, sensing the path of the damage, the spill of the infection. With small relief, she determined that it hadn’t yet spread beyond his arm.
Barriss opened her eyes.
“We could amputate,” she offered softly. “It is not too late for you.”
“You have enough surgical equipment down here?” the lieutenant said, skeptically.
Barriss strayed a hand down towards her belt.
“Ah,” he said, understanding and trepidation lighting his eyes. “That…uh, I guess that would work too, wouldn’t it, commander?”
“It would,” she said. “It will hurt. But it would cauterize instantly.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Well,” he said, finally. “The alternative isn’t much better, is it. Go ahead, commander.”
Barriss nodded, and sought calmness as she stood up. The lieutenant braced himself against the bed.
The lightsaber lit up with a hum.