Soldier Mine (Sons of War #2)
Lizzy Ford
Chapter One: Petr
“Any questions?” I ask.
The classroom of high school freshmen students is quiet to the point of enraptured after hearing my tale. Their teacher is at the back of the room, looking as if she can’t decide whether to be upset or likewise intrigued by what I’ve shared today. Almost everyone is staring at the metal leg that replaced my real one over a year and a half ago.
“Can you run on it?” someone pipes up.
“Even better than a real leg,” I reply.
“If you lost both legs, do they have a left leg or just right legs?”
Someone tells the boy his question is stupid. It’s one I hadn’t thought of before now, and I laugh. “Hopefully they have left legs for people who lose their left one.”
“Is that … skin? Like an android?” one boy asks finally, studying the rubber components of the prototype prosthetic.
“Come on up and see!” I slap the robotic leg that replaced the one blown off near the hip while on a mission in Iraq. It’s sturdy and has the appearance of flesh-toned rubber beside space age technology. Boys find it fascinating while girls tend to focus on whether or not I’m still in pain.
After several dozen school visits, I’m no longer surprised by the reactions or the oddness of their questions. It’s an honor to serve my country in this capacity, since I’m no longer able to serve it in the field running operations as a Special Forces soldier.
A line forms instantly, made up of boys. The girls hedge around them and me. I sit on a stool and stretch out the robotic leg. It reflects the latest in experimental technology, capable of responding much like a leg should. The appearance, however, is not yet as refined as the technology.
“It looks like Star Wars stuff,” one of the boys says, touching the titanium alloy of the thigh.
“It’s close.”
“Does it hurt?” one of the girls asks.
“Nope,” I reply cheerfully.
My answer emboldens them, and the kids crowd around my extended leg in curiosity.
The teacher is grimacing squeamishly as she nears, the normal reaction from an adult. I see her from the corner of my eye and smile to myself. Kids are a lot more fun than adults when it comes to telling them about my leg. There are no pitying or horrified looks from school-aged children, no uncomfortable reassurances that everything will be all right or worst of all, exclusions because they assume I’m less of a person.
I’m not. My leg is gone, but I’m still me. I don’t know how to explain that to people, though.
Kids … well, they get it. They understand that my leg is actually pretty awesome. The amount of science that went into it is astounding and its ability to function like it’s a part of me more so. While I could never be grateful for the explosion that cost me a brother and a leg, I’m grateful for the metal contraption that’s given me a second chance to walk.
“My dad’s doesn’t look like this,” one girl says, frowning.
“It’s pretty high tech,” I tell her. “Your dad military?”
“Yeah. He got out last year after his leg was blown off. He was in the Army, too. But he’s only missing half his leg.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a business card. “Have him contact me. There’s an experimental program I’m in where they custom design legs like mine. They’re always looking for more candidates.”
She accepts the card.
What I don’t tell her: the support services for soldiers’ limb replacement are overwhelmed. With the influx of injured service members and veterans the past ten years, the soldiers’ hospitals and Veterans Administration have some amazing, cutting edge technology and advancements in limb replacement – but don’t always have the resources needed to ensure every injured soldier benefits. I have an inheritance I couldn’t spend in a hundred lifetimes, sit on the board for a charity created in my brother’s name to help wounded vets, and firsthand experience at limb replacement. Helping others is a natural fit, and I’m always on the lookout for people who could use a hand.
The final bell of the day chimes. Interested though they may be, the kids nonetheless dart off to grab their gear and run to catch their buses. The classroom empties out, and I fasten the pant leg of my specially designed dress greens to cover the prosthetic limb once more.
“That was a very … uh, graphic and … um, interesting story,” the teacher says and clears her throat. She approaches, her silver hair and the lines around her intelligent gaze marking her age around fifty or so.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I wink at her, sensing the effort it takes for her not to speak in the disapproving tone she’d probably use with her kids if they told a tale like I just did.
“I have a feeling you were a wild one,” she says and purses her lips.
“I was the calmest in my family,” I reply and silently acknowledge that’s not saying much given the astronomical temperament of my sister and the near suicidal risk taking of my deceased twin brother. “War isn’t always a nice, neat business or what video games and movies paint it as. I think I owe it to the kids to entertain and also give a fair representation.”
“I appreciate your honesty. I know the kids love you. Every teacher in the school wants you to drop by.”