small, but it was a
smile. “Nope. No more MASH. More emphasis on getting the wounded to stationary
hospitals that treat a wider range of ailments. I remember one Iraqi kid who
came in with an infected finger from a sliver he got sliding into a home base
made of a wooden slat. We made a difference in his life because he got to see
the helpful side of Americans, not the blowing-up side. Of course, there were
also the soldiers and civilians blown up by IEDs. We treated them all.”
She no longer saw John’s living room.
Instead she saw the tables of wounded. You could never tell who would make it
and who wouldn’t. Two men, side by side with similar wounds—one would go home
and live a good life and the other would be dead before the end of the night.
She shuddered and forced the memory away.
“What about you? You said you were in the Marines?”
John leaned against the cushions. “Like
you, I wanted to be in the service ever since I was a kid. My dad had been
Army, my grandfather Navy. I had to keep up the tradition of rebellion, so…I
became a Marine.”
Lauren smiled and also leaned back. John
understood. She relaxed only when they weren’t talking about her. That was fine
with him. There were some things she should probably know about him. And maybe,
knowing his past, she’d realize she couldn’t outrun her own.
“But I didn’t just want to be a grunt.
Wanted to be an officer and command men in battle. So I went to the Citadel in
Charleston, South Carolina.”
Lauren gave a low whistle. “Must’ve been
tough for a Yankee down there.”
“You’ve no idea. But I wasn’t going to let
any Southern boys think they could win the War Between the States by pushing
around this Yankee boy. I knew I’d be in for a tough time and graduated well
and with the respect of many of those ‘rebels’.”
“So you were planning to be career Marine
the way I planned to make a career out of patching up you guys.”
He knew she tried to keep her tone light,
but John heard the underlying accusation.
“That pretty much sums it up. Of course,
the goal in battle is not to get hurt and a good leader knows that. A great
leader is the one whose men come home.”
“And which were you?”
The softness of her voice belied the
hardness of the question. “I was only good at first,” he answered. With a sigh,
he ticked off the names. “Mortimer, Jones, Wizard, Pitbull. Four men killed in
the first offensive I led. Three of them were killed when they stepped on a
mine. But the fourth, Pitbull, he was hit by a mortar round. Not a lot of
damage to his legs, but a lot of bleeding. I knew first aid, but didn’t know
enough. I couldn’t save him.”
Lauren could hear the pain in his
admission. She put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He smiled wryly. He took her hand and the
look he gave her remained steady. “I know. I came to terms with it by
determining it would never happen again. I started hanging around the medics in
my free time, getting them to teach me the tricks of their trade.”
“Didn’t you have a medic with you in your
unit in that first battle?”
“Mortimer.”
One of the first ones killed. She nodded.
“So you learned to be the backup medic.”
“It should be part of every officer’s
training. I lobbied for that when I got stateside again but the wheels of the
military turn slowly.”
Lauren made a sound of understanding and he
turned the conversation back to her. “So I have some experience with…coming
home from that.”
“I see that you do.” Some of the tension
had gone from her shoulders but John knew one conversation wouldn’t be enough
to erase the deep cuts her memories made in her soul.
“Thank you, John. It actually does help.
Your knowing what it’s like.”
He still held her hand and now brought it
to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss. Her voice remained soft. “We both had
rough times and we both survived them. I’m almost glad your friend Chuck
smile. “Nope. No more MASH. More emphasis on getting the wounded to stationary
hospitals that treat a wider range of ailments. I remember one Iraqi kid who
came in with an infected finger from a sliver he got sliding into a home base
made of a wooden slat. We made a difference in his life because he got to see
the helpful side of Americans, not the blowing-up side. Of course, there were
also the soldiers and civilians blown up by IEDs. We treated them all.”
She no longer saw John’s living room.
Instead she saw the tables of wounded. You could never tell who would make it
and who wouldn’t. Two men, side by side with similar wounds—one would go home
and live a good life and the other would be dead before the end of the night.
She shuddered and forced the memory away.
“What about you? You said you were in the Marines?”
John leaned against the cushions. “Like
you, I wanted to be in the service ever since I was a kid. My dad had been
Army, my grandfather Navy. I had to keep up the tradition of rebellion, so…I
became a Marine.”
Lauren smiled and also leaned back. John
understood. She relaxed only when they weren’t talking about her. That was fine
with him. There were some things she should probably know about him. And maybe,
knowing his past, she’d realize she couldn’t outrun her own.
“But I didn’t just want to be a grunt.
Wanted to be an officer and command men in battle. So I went to the Citadel in
Charleston, South Carolina.”
Lauren gave a low whistle. “Must’ve been
tough for a Yankee down there.”
“You’ve no idea. But I wasn’t going to let
any Southern boys think they could win the War Between the States by pushing
around this Yankee boy. I knew I’d be in for a tough time and graduated well
and with the respect of many of those ‘rebels’.”
“So you were planning to be career Marine
the way I planned to make a career out of patching up you guys.”
He knew she tried to keep her tone light,
but John heard the underlying accusation.
“That pretty much sums it up. Of course,
the goal in battle is not to get hurt and a good leader knows that. A great
leader is the one whose men come home.”
“And which were you?”
The softness of her voice belied the
hardness of the question. “I was only good at first,” he answered. With a sigh,
he ticked off the names. “Mortimer, Jones, Wizard, Pitbull. Four men killed in
the first offensive I led. Three of them were killed when they stepped on a
mine. But the fourth, Pitbull, he was hit by a mortar round. Not a lot of
damage to his legs, but a lot of bleeding. I knew first aid, but didn’t know
enough. I couldn’t save him.”
Lauren could hear the pain in his
admission. She put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He smiled wryly. He took her hand and the
look he gave her remained steady. “I know. I came to terms with it by
determining it would never happen again. I started hanging around the medics in
my free time, getting them to teach me the tricks of their trade.”
“Didn’t you have a medic with you in your
unit in that first battle?”
“Mortimer.”
One of the first ones killed. She nodded.
“So you learned to be the backup medic.”
“It should be part of every officer’s
training. I lobbied for that when I got stateside again but the wheels of the
military turn slowly.”
Lauren made a sound of understanding and he
turned the conversation back to her. “So I have some experience with…coming
home from that.”
“I see that you do.” Some of the tension
had gone from her shoulders but John knew one conversation wouldn’t be enough
to erase the deep cuts her memories made in her soul.
“Thank you, John. It actually does help.
Your knowing what it’s like.”
He still held her hand and now brought it
to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss. Her voice remained soft. “We both had
rough times and we both survived them. I’m almost glad your friend Chuck
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