“How're you feeling?” he asks, coming over and looking at my chart. “Captain Burns said you were awake and had some questions.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Like when I can get back to my unit.”
“Not for a while,” the major says. “Besides the blood loss, you tore the hell out of your calf muscle.”
“What happened?”
“Shrapnel clipped one of the veins in your calf. Thankfully, it was a vein and not an artery. It's why you didn't lose your lower leg, honestly. The foot kept being supplied with fresh blood, but then you just pumped it out the other side. If that vein had been bigger, you might have just passed out from blood loss earlier.”
I look down at my leg, where my ACU pants have been cut away, and funnily enough, the first thought through my mind is that I'm going to have to go buy another set of pants. Still, I guess they'll get replaced. It is a war zone, after all. It's then that I realize I can't feel anything. “So what's the damage? It's still numb.”
“The wound was a clean pass-through. My guess is a ricochet, judging by the cleanliness. It took a nice chunk out of your calf muscle. I hope you're not into bodybuilding,” the doctor jokes, poking my leg to check sensation. “But because of that, there's no way I'm sending you back to a unit that's walking all over the damn mountains on a regular basis. You'd end up crippled for life within two months, limping for the rest of your life from the scar tissue and other problems. And the numbness should wear off in a few hours. We wanted to make sure you had a chance to recover some before the pain sets in. And yes, it's going to hurt when that block wears off.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Sit here and slowly go apeshit?” I fume, sitting up. “If you keep me in a bed past the next two days, I'm going to be bouncing off the tent poles.”
“We'll find something for you to do, son. Don't worry about that. You're not the first person who's come through the CSH with more energy than common sense. Just sit back for now, and I'll send someone to bring you a little pushcart of books. Not a lot unless you like Stephen King, but it should pass the time.”
“Great. The man in black fled west, and the gunslinger followed him,” I quote, shaking my head. “Okay, okay. I'll do my best to not annoy your staff.”
“Good. And I'll do my best to get you into a normal room where you can talk with other patients or at least some real people. And maybe we can find some desk duty around here for you to do too, if you really want to keep yourself occupied. Square deal?”
“Hooah, sir. Thanks.”
The doctor is good to his word, and three days later, I find myself sitting in a slightly dusty office in Kabul, scanning mail for the censors. It's boring, and I feel a bit like a voyeur, but at least I'm able to keep my mind occupied. My leg throbs a little, but it's more of a deep itch, and I'm glad that I have on a fresh set of ACU pants to go with the bandage. I'm pretty sure I'd tear the fucking stitches out otherwise.
“Hey, El Tee?”
I look up and see Specialist Maravilla, one of the brigade morale specialists, knocking on the jamb of the door. She's tiny, barely five feet tall, and has a perky personality that fits her job personality. I don't think anyone doesn't smile when she comes around chattering constantly. Seriously, she's a one-person USO tour. “What up, Spec Marvelous?”
Maravilla laughs. “You know, sir, most people don't know the meaning of my name. Anyway, I got a message for you from the MWR folks.”
“Really? I thought I returned that book already. Was it damaged?” I ask her, thinking of the little paperback sports story I'd returned this morning.
“No, that's all good, sir. Actually, you've got a video call set up for this evening. Think you can make it to the MWR building at zero eight thirty tomorrow morning? The caller is on the East Coast. Fort Bragg, I think the message said.”
I hide my excitement and give Maravilla a thumbs-up. “You just made my day, Marvelous. Put yourself in for a promotion.”
Maravilla laughs, waving me off. “Can I get to be an officer then?”
“Make yourself a one-star general. I'm sure the Pentagon won't mind,” I joke, and she laughs again before walking off. I turn back to my mail, and perhaps it’s just the hope setting in, but I can barely feel my leg as I go back to making sure that the mail that leaves Afghanistan is clear of sensitive information. Ah, nope, you can't give the name of the town you're in. Sorry.
The video shakes for a moment as someone adjusts the camera before steadying, and Lance is there, sitting on a couch. I know this type of room. A lot of the MWR buildings and FRG buildings have a high-def video camera set up, a remnant of the early War on Terror days when webcams were a rarity, but the military still hangs onto them. It's nice though, you can see their whole bodies that way. “Daddy!”
“Lance!” I answer. I don't know what the hell is going on or how the Army knows about Lance, but right now, I don't give a shit, either. “How're you doing, buddy?”