Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

Over-Use

War Fighter Tunnels
Secure Area
Alfenwehr, Western Germany
14 December, 1987
1500 Hours

"You're all right and so is the baby, Belinda," I told the other woman, leaning back. "You're close, but your cervix is still firm, the baby is sitting up in your ribs and hasn't descended, so you're a few weeks out."

"Thanks, Cromwell," SPC Hanwell said. She chuckled, "My mom was only in labor like a couple hours with me and my siblings. I'm not worried." I saw her belly flex and she gasped. "Woo, womb's getting ready. Baby's moving."

"The baby," I started.

"Carly," Hanwell interrupted, "After my sister. Died of smallpox before I was born in 65."

"Carly is shifting so she'll be head down at your cervix. You'll probably be in labor inside of a week," I told her. "I'll give you an epidural, you'll squeeze Carly out, and I'll put you on  bed rest."

She nodded, levering herself up. She gave me a big grin. "I'm gonna go walk around for a bit, rock Carly to sleep."

I just nodded. "You do that." I walked over and turn off the tape recorder before facing my patient again.

I helped the massively pregnant woman out of the room once she got dressed, then went and pulled the gloves off, then washed my hands. I rested my forehead against the mirror opposite of the push-pedal sink and closed my eyes.

The other troops were healing, the physical damage from the rapes healing, the preggos healthy, the babies healthy, and the new mothers all in good physical condition. Harris and Gordons were healthier and in better shape than they'd been in their entire careers according to them. Harris' acne had cleared up, his skin was clear and healthy, and he'd lost the weight that had been plaguing him since Basic Training. Gordons was leaner, healthier looking, his normally greasy looking dark hair now clean and cut short.

As far as being the medical operations leader, I was doing a great job.

I sighed, opening my eyes and stepping back from the mirror. I stared at myself as I lit a cigarette, ignoring the fact my fingers smelled like Hanwell's vaginal fluids. My eyes had dark circles under them, my face was lean with my cheeks hollow, and I looked hag-ridden.

A had a grey streak in my hair at my forehead, above my left eyebrow. A silver streak the width of my middle finger.

I was exhausted.

"Cromwell?" Harris, from the entry of the medical clinic room. "You busy?"

"Come on in, Harris." I told him, turning around from the mirror, "Hanwell was my last patient on the schedule today."

"Danke," He came in and leaned against the examination table.

"Bitte," I answered, walking back over to the counter and pulling out another pair of latex gloves. I put out my cigarette, dropping the butt into the metal trashcan to join its brothers and sisters. I snapped on the gloves then turned back to look at Harris. I reached out and hit record and play at the same time on the cassette deck.

"Fourteen December, nineteen-eighty-seven, time is fifteen-ten hours. Patient is Elijah Johnathon Harris, Private, US Army," I intoned. Harris kept his face neutral while I kept speaking, "Patient appears in good healthy, with stable mental condition. Medical history while in confinement is in attached file." I sighed and turned to him.

"How's your bullet wound healing?" I asked him.

"Just fine."

"No numbness or tingling?" He shook his head. "Patient has signified that there is no nerve deficets." I walked up to him.