Third Person - Complete

And Snatched Them Up.

Roberts held the stuffed rabbit on his lap, petting it slowly. Major Trello, the new S-2, had come by and given him his briefing. Telling him what was covered by national security, what he could never talk about, and what he was allowed to say. The Major had had Roberts sign off on the fact that all of his access had been removed.

Afterwards Cromwell, a girl named Wizzy, and Stokes had come in to see him, telling them that they had personally packed up his stuff and been present when the shippers had arrived and taken possession of them.

He had cried as they held his remaining hand. Cromwell had looked at the stump of his arm, tears running down her face as she apologized for being unable to save his arm.

The wasn't anything but bone splinters and rotting marrow. There had been nothing but dying flesh to save.

He looked at the rabbit and smiled to himself.

But I'm alive and that's what counts.

He was no longer part of 2/19th Special Weapons Group.

Newsome had shown up afterwards, telling him that he'd be accompanying Roberts and Lewis to Walter Reed.

There was a knock on the door right before the door opened and Newsome came in, his usual smile missing.

"Hey, Fonzi," Roberts said, smiling as best he could. It felt good to have all the tubes removed, just the oxygen tube under his nose.

"You're being transferred to Walter Reed in an hour or so," Newsome said, coming over and sitting down. "I'll be coming with you."

"I figured," Roberts said, his voice low and rough.

"I talked to Bobbi," he said. Roberts felt his guts clench. "She says you two are all right."

Roberts sagged slightly, feeling relief flood him.

"She pretty much said she understands why you wouldn't say anything," Newsome said. He looked at Roberts and shook his head. "Damn, man. I can't believe I fucking know you, that I went to Basic and AIT with you, man."

Roberts frowned. "Why?"

Newsome gave him an odd look. "Because you're a bad motherfucker, James. I mean, shit, they had you guys for two weeks, you lost your fucking arm and you never said a fucking word beyond name, rank, and serial number."

Roberts shook his head. "Couldn't, man."

Newsome grabbed his hand, squeezing it. "I'm proud to have known you and served next to you, James."

Roberts felt something well up inside of him as he realized that Newsome was serious.

The door opened and Chief Henley stood in the doorway.

"Go get shit ready, you Happy-Days escapee," Henley snarled, stomping into the room. "You're stinking the place up with the stench of stupidity."

Newsome just got up and left as Henley stood at the end of the bed, staring at Roberts, hatred burning in his eyes.

"You think your career is over, boy?" Henley growled.

Roberts looked at the stump of his arm, then back at Henley, who nodded slowly. "Yeah, those vodka snorting communist faggots took your arm. So?"

Roberts just smiled.

"You think we're done, boy?" Henley asked, leaning forward slightly. "You think just because you lost your arm you aren't my fucking property any more?"

Roberts frowned as Henley came around the bed, opening a camouflage folder and taking out a Skilcraft pen.

"A handful of men have withstood what you did, boy," Henley said, his voice soft but deadly as a razor. "You took everything they could do to you and never said a fucking word."

"If I did, people would have died," Roberts admitted.

"You forced them to almost kill you by accident to prevent them from using you against your fellow prisoners. You bit the inside of your arm and rubbed your own shit into the open wound," Henley said slowly. "You never fucking broke."

Roberts flushed slightly under the unexpected praise.

"You realize that Special Weapons troops undergo yearly anti-interrogation training?" Henley asked.

Roberts nodded.

"You know now why, don't you?" Henley asked.

Roberts nodded again.

"I'm not done with you. That Army isn't done with you," Henley growled, putting the folder on Roberts's lap and holding it in place with one hand while handing the pen to Roberts with the other. "You sign here, you keep going. The Army needs you, Special Weapons needs you."

Roberts clumsily signed it with his left hand, an almost desperate need filling him.

Henley snapped the folder shut, then stood there for a long moment, staring at Roberts. Finally, he reached out and rested his hand on Roberts's left shoulder.

"I'm proud you were under my command, James Roberts," the big pot bellied man said. "Now do me even prouder and teach those goddamn animals that if you can endure what you did, they can too."

He moved to the door, stopping for a moment and staring.

"You'll look good in a suit, Roberts," he said.

And then he was gone.