Patchwork Man

“Patchwork Man”

By

R.A. Audette

 

I am Frankenstein’s monster. A patchwork man, stitched together from the parts of my brothers in arms.

And though my left leg comes from Juan and my right from Thomas, while my left arm used to be Johnson’s, the heart that beats inside my chest is all my own. My mind, though I like to think it is also my own, belongs to this never-ending war.

The explosion that killed my squad tore and shredded my body. I was lucky to have survived, and if not for the death of my men, I would be dead myself. My body armor hides the scars from the surgery that saved my life, but everyone knows who and what I am.

When the shell exploded, my squad and I were getting ready to head out on patrol. We had a complex of rooms and tunnels burrowed into the side of Cisco Hill, so deep the Chinese and their allies couldn’t bomb us out. Still, it wasn’t unusual for a rocket or artie to drop in for a visit from time to time. This one struck at the wrong time for us, just as we were pushing out the gate. It was a lucky shot, but I will always blame myself for not deploying one man at a time.

The doctors were able to pull me out of the carnage, and even though most of my lower body and part of my left side were gone, I was still breathing, my heart pumping. When they brought me in, they hauled in as much of the others as they could in body bags for later identification.

In the 60 seconds it would have taken me to die, they had me stabilized. Because more rounds began to fall on the hill, they were unable to call for a medevac to main base. They kept me alive in their makeshift hospital, hoping for a chance to send me to the rear.

For two months we were sealed in tight, hiding from the enemy as it besieged the area with its air ships and lasers, rockets and bombs.

Maybe the doctors, huddled together and listening to the bombing over their heads, were just bored when they looked at the half a body I had left. Somewhere deep in someone’s mind, a light bulb must have flashed. I don’t know. I never had a chance to ask them. They had the facilities and they had the time and not a little bit of thread, a few staples and plenty of synthetic blood, so why not try?

I was in a coma. They didn’t have my consent, but when I came to, they said the only consent they needed from me was my signature on the induction notice.

After the siege of our forward post ended, the doctors on base told me they could regrow my parts from my own cells. Without hesitation, I said no. I wanted to remember the men who I trained with, ate and slept with. Now, in more than memory I carry them with me. Letting the doctors take that gift from me would be ingratitude.

Once I recovered, I tried to get back into the swing of things, but the rest of the soldiers all refused to serve with me - as if the hex which got my squad killed still hangs over my head, waiting for the next group of guys to be blown to pieces. Or perhaps they were just horrified by what I had become – a misshapen monster of war.

So now I go out alone. I scout. I snipe. I plant bombs. I find my own way to fight. The general is happy to let me run my own business as long as I stay off base. Not wanted in camp, I spend my time wandering through the rubble, looking for people to kill. I return to base for supplies, food and water and medications, both anti-rejection drugs and anti-radiation pills.

A handful of nukes fell when the war started, and they were enough for the world to grind to a halt and fall into another dark age. But instead of swords and crossbows and dying a slow death on some muddy European battlefield we have the ever present C-4, rapid-fire lasers and amazing medical procedures.