Captured(14)

Voss crushes me, then lets me down, and claps me on the shoulder so hard I stumble. “I can’t f*cking believe it, man. I never thought I’d see you again, brother.”

He’s joined by the rest of Golf Company: Hector and Isaiah and Deadly-Fredly and Spacey. They’re all crowding around me, calling out my name, reaching for me, chattering too fast to catch anything, and my head is spinning and my heart is hammering and I’m sweating, stomach in knots, eyes leaking f*cking sissy-shit tears I can’t stop, and I just want to hide, go back into my hut in the darkness and the silence.

I should be laughing and joking and calling them names; instead, I’m hyperventilating and about to heave, except there’s nothing in my stomach.

Voss sees what’s happening, turns and bellows, “All right, y’all! Back off. Back off. Give the man some space. Ain’t none of you got work to do?” He wraps a burly bare arm around my shoulder, his massive paw on my head.

I scrape the back of my wrist across my face, try to laugh off my mortification. “Sorry. It’s good—good to see you, too, man.”

He pulls me against him in another hug. “No shame in it, man. No shame in it.” He lets me go, trots to the tent, calling back over his shoulder, “Hold up, hold up — I got something for you.” Returns with a clenched fist. Grabs my hand in his, places two sets of dog tags in my palm. “Been holding onto these. They found ’em, along with—when they found Barrett. Yours and his.”

My tags. Barrett’s tags. My disbelieving laughter is part sob. “Shit.” I blink, duck my head, and cough away the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Bill. You don’t—you don’t even know…just—thank you.”

His voice is a low rumble. “I ain’t even gonna pretend I know what you been through. But I’m here for you. All of us are.”

“I—” Words stick in my throat.

“The medics are waiting for us,” a sharp voice says. Captain Laughlin. “Reunions can happen later. As you were, Voss.”

“Sir.” Voss nods at me, returns to the tent where Golf is cleaning their rifles and readying their gear for a patrol. “Glad you’re back, West.”

My escort starts moving, and I’m compelled to go with them. In truth, I’m glad to be away from the guys. I ran a lot of patrols with Golf Company, spent a lot of downtime shooting the shit with Voss and Isaiah and Barrett in the gym. Seeing them…brings flashbacks of patrols, the clink of weights, Voss telling horribly racist jokes that none of us were ballsy enough to actually laugh at unless he did first. I touch the letter against my belly; it’s still sitting under the waistband of my pants.

I’m taken to the medical facility. Most of my escort leaves, except one guy with a rifle held at rest—barrel down, butt up—eyes avoiding me, taking a place outside the door of the room. A jet takes off, rumbling loud, and then the room fades back to silence. A clock ticks. My heart thumps. I wonder what’s next. A hospital stay, like I’m sick? Cycled back into active duty? I don’t know. I can’t remember what happens next, according to policy. I don’t feel like a Marine. I feel scared, lost, overwhelmed, confused.

A doc and a couple of orderlies arrive. I watch the orderlies, young guys, barely more than kids, probably only been shaving a year or two. They stay by the door and wait for orders. The doc introduces himself, looks me over. It feels like a normal physical evaluation, which is sort of anticlimactic.

Then he starts poking and prodding, chest, lymph nodes, stomach, tugs the waist of the pajama pants down, sees the dirty sweat-and bloodstained olive-green packet. “What’s this?” He grabs for it.

My fingers latch onto his wrist, and I shove him away. It’s automatic. Nobody touches the letter. “It’s nothing. It’s a letter.”

He’s wary now, suspicious. “We have to check it out, Corporal West. Can I have it, please?”

It’s totally normal. They just have to make sure it’s clean, safe. But I can’t give it up. I can’t. I clutch the cotton-wrapped paper in my hands. The doctor reaches for it again. “We’ll give it back, Corporal. You have my word.”

I can’t let go. Rage seizes me, unreasoning, blinding. Terror. Claustrophobia. The walls of the room close in. My chest is tight, as if iron bands are strapped around my lungs, preventing breath, preventing thought, preventing reason. I see the doctor’s mouth moving, but hear nothing. The orderlies step forward, one to each side. They grab my arms. Someone is screaming and cursing. I’m thrashing, kicking, fighting. The orderlies are f*cking strong for a couple of green little pukes. Something pokes my bicep.

Warmth floats over me, stealing my panicked rage.

I watch my fingers go limp, the shirt-wrapped letter tumbling, cotton drifting away, the envelope creased and wrinkled and stained with dark brown-red bloody fingerprints three years old. I struggle to stay awake, to get my letter back, but darkness is heavy and thick and—





*





I wake up in a bed. A real bed. It feels bizarre, after sleeping on a dirt floor or bare tile or concrete for so long. My head buzzes, and I feel fuzzy and muddled. Was the whole thing a dream?

No. I open my eyes and realize I’m in the isolation ward. Or what counts for it in this part of the world.

So much for cycling back to active duty.