In Search of a Hero

Chapter 5: The Road Home

It's hard to put your foot down when you're trapped in a hospital bed but Booth gave it his best shot. He sat as straight as the lumpy cot allowed, conscious all the while of the shabby, ill-fitting pajamas straining to stretch across his shoulders, and the stubble of dark beard shading his cheeks. Razors were in short supply at the hospital, as was everything else, but that fact didn't make him feel any less ill-kempt, especially in the presence of the impeccably dressed Colonel Milton Armstrong.

As always, the colonel looked as if he'd stepped out of one of the movies Hollywood was churning out to capitalize on the patriotic fervor sweeping the country. Of medium height, he stood trim and straight, cap tucked under the bend of one arm, with a picturesque touch of silver sweeping across the temples of his closely-trimmed dark hair. The short coat of his uniform set neatly at his waist, above khaki trousers marked by creases so sharp, they might have qualified as a battlefield weapon, too.

The dandified appearance was a lie. Ranked first in West Point's graduating class of 1915, the newly-minted young lieutenant turned ruthless ambition and three years of battlefield experience in the Great War into a steady climb up the ranks. Two years into yet another world war and Colonel Armstrong was well on his way to a general's star.

On this particular morning, however, the colonel's usual scowl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, humour gleamed in his eyes as he listened to Booth's increasingly futile attempts to avoid being shipped state-side.

"Sir, I'm fine. My feet are almost healed. Just give me another week or two and I'll be ready to fly again. I swear."

Col. Armstrong exchanged a glance with Matron, standing beside him. "Is that so."

The springs of his cot protested with a rusty squeak as Booth tried to stretch his upper torso into an even straighter line. He'd made no secret of his unwillingness to leave the war behind and now that his never-ending complaints had finally brought the colonel himself to his bedside, the whole ward listened in. Snickers of hushed laughter and a few quiet whispers reached his ears as those men too injured to move closer got a play-by-play from someone who could.

"Sir, good men are dying out there every day. I need to be in the air. I need to do what I can to help!"

"I'll tell you what, Captain. Why don't you hop on out of that bed and take a lap or two around the room. If you can do that, then we'll talk."

Frustration boiled over. Although his feet were healing as expected, even after two weeks, Booth was barely able to manage more than a few shuffling steps before the pain drove him back to bed. The thought of a stroll around the room was unfathomable . . . but so was leaving his squad to fight on without him.

"My place is with my men!" The hoarse shout echoed across the ward, silencing the whispers and laughter, and leaving a heavy cloud of tension in its wake. It was a step too far, and Booth knew it even before the colonel's eyes turned to flint. His Adam's apple jumped in his throat as he swallowed. "Sir."

The colonel's face was a mask of fury and stone. The wall of medals that covered his chest bristled with outrage. "Your place is where I say it is, Captain," he said, his lips barely moving as the words dropped into the room like blocks of ice. "You can't walk, let alone fly. Putting you back in the air would only endanger your copilot and crew. Are you so hungry to see your picture in the newspapers that you're willing to put their lives on the line?"

It was a low blow, and undeserved, but Booth knew better than to take the bait. His cheeks flushed hot beneath the grizzled shadow of beard but he held the colonel's gaze.

"No, sir."

Col. Armstrong didn't yet have his pound of flesh. "Don't let those headlines give you ideas above your rank, Captain. Your men are under my command, and so are you. Are we clear?"