Galactic Patrol by E.E. Smith

Kinnison did not lose consciousness -- quite. There was too much to do, too much that _had_ to be done. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to his speedster. He had, by hook or by crook, to get back to Prime Base! Therefore, grimly, doggedly, teeth tight-locked in the enhancing agony of every movement, he drew again upon those hidden, those deeply buried resources which even he had no idea he possessed. His code was simple: the code of the Lens. While a Lensman lived he did not quit. Kinnison was a Lensman. Kinnison lived. Kinnison did not quit.

He fought back that engulfing tide of blackness, wave by wave as it came. He beat down by sheer force of will those tenderly beckoning, those sweetly seducing arms of oblivion. He forced the mass of protesting putty that was his body to do what _had_ to be done. He thrust styptic gauze into the most copiously bleeding of his wounds. He was burned, too, he discovered then -- they must have had a high-powered needle ray on that truck, as well as the rifle -- but he could do nothing about burns. There simply wasn't time.