General Randal Trask made a point of going to the infirmary early in the morning before his troops were awake to see Miss. Margaret Whitmore. He couldn’t fathom why Private Whitmore could not just tell him she’d been shot. She was a hazard to herself, but he had to admit, in a way he admired her.
She was a woman fighting amongst men. The only woman left in her troop, the rest had been killed. It seemed to him that she’d only survived this long on instinct and her sense of self-preservation, she cared about none of her comrades. He couldn’t hate her for not caring either, none of them cared for her, except Grayson and Wate and if he allowed himself to, he cared about her, too.
His eyes were downcast as he mulled through his thoughts about the girl sleeping in front of him, the doctor had said she’d be fine, it’d just take time. He could understand why, when he had finally realized what happened she didn’t have much flesh surrounding the shattered bone. He wondered how she even made it as far as base before pain engulfed her.
He checked on her daily waiting for her to wake up. He had to consider sending her back to Headquarters and she had to be part of the decision or at least he thought she should. He often thought her weak and unfit for war, but she was a good soldier. As Trask let his thoughts consume him eyes that hadn’t opened for the past three days observed his stressed posture and calm breathing.
“Can I help you, General Trask?”
Margaret, or Maggie as her family had called her, had to confess her surprise when she opened her eyes after three days of sleep that Trask was the first person she saw. Not that she was expecting someone else.
“Good morning Private. It’s nice to see you awake, how do you feel?” Maggie knew Randal Trask was in no way a doctor, but the ridiculous question he’d just asked sure as hell made him seem like one.
Before she could answer him Doctor Eccleston waltzed in, “Oh, terribly sorry Mr. Trask and Miss. Whitmore. I’m afraid Miss. Whitmore needs help changing her bandages.”
“Not a problem Doctor. We’ll talk later, Miss. Whitmore, your recovery is more important.”
Trask watched as the doctor began to uncoil her old wrappings and clean the healing flesh, her leg wouldn’t heal nicely, and she’d always have the reminder of the time she should’ve died in battle. He was sorry, sorry he’d pushed when she had exerted herself.
