by Backwoods
Chapter Three
Two Days Later…
He awoke with a sharp pain and jolted up in agony. His arm was confined by a sling and a covering of tubes and wires confined him to a hospital bed. His father sat alongside him, freshly awakened from his awkward, twisted slumber.
“Sounds like you had a hell of a trip.” He offered, squeezing the sleep from his eyes. “I don’t know what hell you made it through, but people around here are impressed. Your C.O. dropped these by for you.”
He pulled two small cases from his pocket, laid them on the bed, and flipped them each open. The first was a Purple Heart, for being wounded in action against an enemy, he explained. The second, a Silver Star, for gallantry in battle against an enemy.
“Tommy,” he paused. “I heard that Johnny didn’t make it. I am sorry, son. I can’t imagine your pain, but whatever you need, your mom and myself,” he paused again. “Just know that we are here for you. We love you, son.”
A tear trickled down Tommy’s face and he turned his head, staring blankly at the wall as those final images played through his thoughts. He turned further and vomited violently toward a trash can on the floor, mostly missing it. Pain replaced everything as his shoulder screamed with a sensation of ripping fire. The pain overtook him and he fell silent, slumping back into the bed as his world turned black and he drifted off.
His father, startled by the reaction, stood over him and helped him roll back into a restful position, then broke into tears himself.
He slept for several minutes, just long enough for his father to regain his composure, and awoke to a doctor standing over him.
“Hello, Thomas. Dr Leroy Bertram, at your service.” The odd-looking man said, his accent even stranger. “You’ve had a bit of a rough time, I see. I patched you up and you should be okay. Couple broken ribs, a shot in the shoulder and some bad sores on your feet. You had some chips of rock, or brick, or something embedded in your face, back, and neck. We went ahead and plucked them outta ther for ya. That shoulder gonna give you fits for the rest of your life, though. The round went into your shoulder in such a way that it caused some pretty significant damage to your labrum, capsule, and many of the muscles, ligaments, tendons, and all them goodies that hold you all together. They are needed to maintain the stability in your shoulder joint, without them your gonna have some subluxation and maybe even dislocations. It’s gonna take some rehab and hard work, but I think we can get you functional again.”
Tommy looked at the skinny white haired man, desperately trying to make sense out of anything the doctor was saying. The words came quickly and meant little as they floated away from him, their meaning lost. He did understand the doctor was allowing his release and he would be able to return home.
The doctor left the room and Tommy looked at his father. “I’ll be all right, Dad. That Silver Star shouldn’t be mine, though, Dad. It should be Donnelly’s.”
“Who is Donnelly, anyway? Your C.O. said that you were carrying on about going back for Donnelly. They searched the area and pieced together what happened. They found the spot on the rooftop where you made a stand, and another spot alongside the building where they found your blood on the wall and another pile of bodies. They also had some type of images that showed three truckloads of soldiers arriving after your platoon had been killed, satellite or spy plane or something. They said that you killed over two dozen soldiers by yourself.”
Tommy prepared to speak, but his father interrupted and continued, “They verified all of the identities of the remains, Son, but there was no one named Donnelly there. You told them that he was sent in to get you out, but the guys that found you were the ones sent in for support. They said that the scene was very bad and anyone would likely have some troubles with reality in a situation like that. There was no Donnelly, son.”
Tommy sat in confusion, battling memories, desperately trying to sort out what he could recall of the ordeal. As he struggled to remember, the doctor walked back in.
“I almost forgot, they found you with this. I thought you would want it back. I took the bullets out though. Don’t need no loaded weapons in a hospital, now do we?” He smiled and handed over a 9mm pistol. “And, son,” he added, “Thank you for your incredible service. It was surely an honor to patch ye back up.”
The doctor’s accent sounded as if he had just crawled out from under some tree deep in the backwoods, but his knowledge of the injuries was obviously advanced. Tommy’s attention, however, turned to the pistol instead. It was the pistol that Donnelly had given him. He looked it over, holding it awkwardly with his left hand, still weakened from the surgery and the battle.
The pistol was nothing fancy, an old Smith and Wesson P-89 semi-automatic 9mm. Tommy placed it in his duffel that had somehow found its way to his bedside, likely assisted by his father and the Commanding Officer. A nurse came in and removed the fingertip heart monitor, the wires and suction cup pads hat monitored his heart and the IV line stuck in the back of his hand. With some assistance from his father, he changed into some BDU’s that he found within the duffel and prepared to go home.