Roberts woke up to the door opening and closing. The lock snapped, then there was the distinctive thump-drag of Patch walking on that bad leg of his. Roberts laid there as the locks to Patch's wall-lockers rattled, then the locker door opened and closed. After a minute the bathroom door opened and closed, then the shower cut on.
Roberts laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about what had happened only a few days before. Trying not to just made it worse, made it come back with more clarity, more force.
Lewis, Taggart, Putter, and Mason were all still in the hospital
Roberts didn't know why.
He hadn't asked.
The shower turned off and Patch staggered his way into the room. Roberts just laid there as the other man undid the string ties that held the laundry bag on the end of the bed before shoving his uniform inside and replacing the strings.
Roberts stayed silent as Patch made himself a drink, then sat down in the dark with a cigarette.
"Sergeant?" Roberts asked, staring at the ceiling.
"Did I wake you?" Patch's growl was an attempt to be gentle.
"No. I wasn't asleep," Roberts half-lied.
"Bad dreams?" Patch asked. The glow off his cigarette lit the right side of his face, letting Roberts see him in profile.
"Kind of," Roberts said. He opened his mouth to say more, then closed it.
"Want a drink?" Patch asked.
"I don't drink," Roberts said, going back to staring at the ceiling.
There was silence for a moment. "I admire that in you, Roberts," Patch said softly. Roberts looked over at the other man.
"What?" Roberts asked.
"I was an alcoholic by the time I was eighteen. I drink to sleep. I drink to help alleviate the side effects of the Field Warfare Pack, I drink to make my hands stop shaking," Patch said quietly. "I admire that you didn't reach for the bottle to help you get by."
Roberts went silent, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet for a long time.
"Where you at the hospital visiting..." Roberts let his voice trail off.
"No. I was having dinner with Sergeant Bomber, going over paperwork involving the incident," Patch said.
"Oh," Roberts said again.
The smell of roasting flesh seemed to fill his mouth.
"Talked to Henley today," Patch said softly. "Turned in the award paperwork for everyone."
"Oh," Roberts said, feeling the burn of shame again.
"I was looking through the statements today. You haven't written your statement," Patch said, putting out his cigarette.
Roberts laid there, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see in the darkness. The silence stretched out for a long time.
"I saw that trucker you saved," Patch said suddenly. "Today, at the hospital."
"Oh," Roberts aid. He could suddenly taste the burning flesh in his mouth again.
"You got to him before his balls melted. He told me to tell you 'thank you' the next time I saw you. Looks like he'll probably even keep his career," Patch said.
"How?" Roberts asked. He could remember the blackened skin with the reddish cracks.
"You put him out before the burning transaxle fluid ate through his skin and into the muscle. He's got second and third degree burns on the front of his thighs, second degree on his shins. Between you and the fire retardant of the uniform, he's keeping his legs," Patch said softly.
YOU ARE READING
Third Person - Complete
Historical FictionPFC James Roberts just wanted to serve his country, like his father and grandfather. He left his middle class life to join the military with the hope of making his family proud. Graduating top of his class in Basic Training, attending Advanced Indiv...
