Lightning Strike (Damned of the 2/19th Short Story) - FINISHED

Epilogue

I woke up to the steady beeping of medical monitors. My mouth was dry, my head was ringing, my legs hurt, and I could feel the lingering after-effects of surgical anesthetic. My eyes were gummy, which meant I'd been down for awhile, and there was the slight sting on my eyelids that told me that my eyes had been taped shut. I swallowed, groaned, and managed to open my eyes.

The roof above me was the typical drop-ceiling tiles that told me nothing more than I was in a hospital. I tried to move, but realized my arms and legs were restrained, and all I managed to do was make the tubes and wires move and clink. I gagged slightly, the oxygen tube hissing into my nose had made my sinuses and throat dry.

"You alive, Nagle?" Cromwell's voice.

"Thirsty," I managed to rasp out.

"I hit the button for the nurse," Cromwell said, "I figured you'd be thirsty."

"Alive," Still raspy, "Stillwater?"

There was silence for a moment, "He's still in surgery, he was pretty busted up," There was a sigh, "Bomber had to get pins put in his arm and is on oxygen for a collapsed lung. The moron was running around like Rambo with one of his lungs collapsed."

I made another croaking sound, trying to ask what happened, but Cromwell was able to translate it. "I got lucky, Nancy. They said I'll recover quickly and I'll still be able to have children," She chuckled, "Unless Atlas manages to sterilize me with radiation or chemicals."

The nurse came in, smiling down at me. "Welcome back, Specialist Nagle," She smiled. She checked my chart, "You got a little violent pre and post surgery, do you know where you are now?" I nodded, and rasped again. She smiled at me, soft face with curly brown hair, her hands busy releasing my hands. "You came through surgery very well. The surgeons treated you for crush syndrome, removed several pieces of embedded steel from your buttocks and upper thighs, and we expect you to make a full recovery."

"Good, because as soon as Corporal Stillwater is released from surgery the entirety of first squad will be returning to their duties out at FSTS-317," A male voice broke in.

I looked over and saw a short man, weedy looking, with a narrow pinched face, dishwater blond hair, watery brown eyes, and a distinct impression he was somehow pouting. He was in standard BDU's, pressed and starched so the creases were almost razor sharp, with highly polished boots, and he had Sergeant First Class rank on his collar. I frowned at him, and he tried to glare at me, as if I'd be intimidated by some REMF NCO who probably didn't even know what Atlas looked like. I didn't recognize the name "Regison" at all, but the way the upper ranks of 2/19th rotated that didn't mean anything.

"These soldiers have several days of hospitalization in front of them, as well as weeks of recovery and rehabilitation," the nurse said.

"The Army pays these soldiers to do their duty, not lay around in the hospital malingering," He sneered. He tapped his First Cavalry Division patch on his right shoulder. "In Vietnam, First Cav didn't tolerate soldiers malingering, and I won't tolerate soldiers in my platoon trying to ride profiles."

The nurse handed me a brown plastic pitcher with a straw poking out the top, then turned toward SFC Regison with a glare. I greedily sucked at the straw, relishing the cool cherry Kool-Aid and the way it felt like my mouth and throat tissues were expanding from absorbing the moisture.

"Easy, Nancy," Cromwell advised me. I nodded, stopped drinking, but held onto the pitcher as the nurse began speaking.

"I don't care how Cav did things during Vietnam, that was ten years ago, in a war zone, and this is peace-time and not First Cavalry," She stated coldly. The NCO made a scoffing noise as she continued, "Despite what you might think, you are not involved in these soldier's medical care."