War Year by Joe Haldeman

one of them asked, “You ever ridden on an ambulance, fren’?”
    â€œNever have.” Ouch. My leg hurt every time either one of them took a step.
    â€œWell, this will just be a short ride, but we’ll put on the siren for you.”
    â€œThanks a lot.”
    â€œDon’ mention it.”
    They put me in the ambulance—it looked just like any other olive-drab army panel truck—and actually burned rubber on the dirt road, taking off. They switched on the siren. It might have been fun if I’d been in any condition to enjoy it.
    There was a big bump—which hurt like hell—and we were on the airstrip, howling toward a C-130 that was all ready to go, engines roaring. They loaded me on and strapped my stretcher in place, and the plane was moving before the rear door had closed all the way.
    I looked around. All the other people on the plane were sitting on the other side, perfectly well. There wasn’t another wounded person on board—and for all the attention they paid to me, I could be just another piece of equipment. Thinking about it later, I guess that was all right. What did I want them to do? Stare?

TEN
    The plane landed, not too gently, and there was an ambulance waiting for me. The ride in this one was just as fast and bumpy, but they didn’t use the siren.
    A couple of little Vietnamese unloaded my stretcher and jogged me down a covered sidewalk. The way they grunted and carried on, I was afraid they were going to drop me.
    There was another building with bright fluorescent lights, this time aboveground. They put me on a table and a doctor came over (holding a clipboard, of course).
    â€œJohn W. Farmer?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œTell me in your own words what happened.”
    â€œWe were walking down a trail… and the guy in front of me… stepped on a mine.”
    â€œHow do you know it was a mine?”
    â€œWell, it sounded like one, you know, a little… pop before it went off. A ‘Bouncing Betty’”
    â€œDid it kill the man who stepped on it?”
    All of a sudden I could see Prof lying on the trail with his guts rolling out, throat split open, after all the shit we went through together… and it could just as well have been me. I couldn’t make myself answer.
    â€œHe is dead, then, right?” I nodded.
    He asked me other questions about my unit, rank, and so on. While he was quizzing me an honest-to-God woman came over and cut away my dressings. She was about as old as my mother. Her touch was very gentle, but it still hurt when she peeled the dressings off.
    She hooked my arm up to a bottle that said “Penicillin 10 million units USP”—I guess that was a super-shot of penicillin. Must have been at least a quart.
    Then one of the Vietnamese rolled me away, stretcher, table, bottle, and all. We went down the sidewalk about a block, and through double doors marked POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE. I wondered whether the Vietnamese could read English.
    He rolled me up to a white table under a huge X-ray machine. A medic in a green tunic was talking on the phone.
    â€œRight. He just got here. Okay… bye.” He hung up.
    â€œWell, Mr. John W. Farmer. Ready to get zapped by the Monster Machine?”
    â€œReady as ever, I guess.”
    â€œHmm, that bottle’s going to complicate things a bit.” It was hanging on a rack attached to the rolling table. “We’ll see what we can do, though.” He motioned to the Vietnamese, and the two of them lifted me onto the cold enamel under the machine. “Now, we’ll do the hard one first. Keep your arm stretched out so you don’t pull the needle out, and roll over on your left side. Kick your good leg out to the left. Good. Hold it.” He moved the machine around until the nose, a yellow plastic cone, was pointed at the biggest wound. It would have been an uncomfortable position even if I wasn’t shot full of holes. He