|
He was totally and thoroughly frustrated. He
usually knew exactly where his squad was, but he’d lost them about an
hour before, in the mêlée that had taken place just before Doc was
hit. Folding his arms in front of him on the
ground, he lay his helmeted head down on them.
He breathed in the smell of the dirt under him, and let himself
relax for a moment. Mortar fire and short range weaponry could be heard
all over the area. He and Doc had gotten pinned down in a
foxhole and now Doc was unconscious next to him.
His Thompson automatic lay beside him, useless.
His magazines were empty and the crazy thing had locked up on
him, leaving them defenseless. An exasperated breath escaped his lips,
disturbing the dirt and causing him to sneeze.
He wiped his face across his arm and looked around again.
In the distance he could see the explosions containing smoke,
shrapnel, dirt and bodies spouting upwards like huge geysers. He prayed
his men weren’t anywhere near them. Shaking his head from the awful
thoughts, he turned his attention to the medic who lay bleeding to his
left. Checking the bandage,
he saw that the blood was clotting and that Doc was beginning to stir. “Doc?” he touched his medic’s shoulder
and gave it a small shake. “Doc,
wake up.” The medic moaned and slowly opened his eyes. “Sarge,” he replied as he focused his attention on the
superior. “Are you okay?
Where are the others?” “Not sure where the others are, and I’m
fine,” he didn’t want the medic to worry about his leg wound.
“Don’t torture yourself about me, you’re awake and that’s
all I’m concerned with at the moment.” “But …” “Really, I’ll be fine.
You fixed it up before you were hit.” Saunders heard the distinct whistle of an
incoming shell and instinctively threw himself over the top of the medic
to protect him. Hot shards of metal hit his back, burning though his
field jacket, slicing and searing his flesh beneath it. That was the last thing he remembered feeling as he lost consciousness. |
|
Table of Contents |