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Chapter Five
Where are my pants?”
I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then came to.
A hazy figure stood beside me. I was flat on my back, looking up.
“What country is this?” I whispered. “Where are my pants?”
When I tried to move, a wave of pain and nausea swept over me and I passed out again. It was a couple of days before I fully comprehended the words people spoke.
I was like a newborn baby. When I shit myself, I didn’t even have the sense or wherewithal to feel ashamed. It was beyond my ken. I just shit. That’s all.
Finally one day, and I don’t remember being in a whole lot of pain, Major Mad Dog and the adjutant were standing beside my bed.
What was that lovely smell? Was that lilac? A moment of dread, then I shook off the possibility that it was the smell of lilies in a funeral arrangement. This is a bed, not a coffin. My heart pounds in my chest. It is unmistakable. Dead people don’t have a heartbeat.
I’m alive. But how is this possible? I tried to speak, and I must have made as if to sit up in bed, and that’s when I figured out who smelled like that. She gently put her hand on my chest.
Her soft, calm voice murmured reassurance.
“Be still.”
She said it once, but it was enough. How could I resist?
Do you believe in love at first sight? I couldn’t even see her. The glare of morning sunlight from behind turned her hair into a golden halo. It was like looking at an angel.
That’s pretty powerful stuff. I remember thinking that at the time. I was young, and I couldn’t say if I even really knew what love was.
But I was soon to find out.
Love is something that you hold on to. Even when you have nothing else left, not even your sense of humor.
So I just lay there as weak as a newborn kitten and listened more or less in rapt attention. The Major told me how proud everyone was and how the boys in the squadron were all anxiously awaiting my return to duty. Then he shook my hand and stepped back. He had a nice smile, for an officer. Some of those guys could be pretty miserable little Napoleons, but I remember he was alright. The adjutant had a couple of things to say.
“You got the balloon,” for example, then they left me with the nurse.
“What’s that smell?” I asked.
“That’s the smell of wounded men.”
“No, no, I know that.” I stuttered in confusion.
You have to remember, I had just woken up from a very deep sleep. A coma, in fact.
“What’s that fragrance you’re wearing?” I asked in a whisper.
She stood up, and that’s when I realized she had a chair by the bed.
“You know, we’ve all been worried that you might not survive. The doctor will be pleased with your progress.” She was demure, but of course they all were—
She busied herself down by my legs, which quite frankly hurt. At the onset of this conversation, I really felt like being very warm, and I don’t know, like all wrapped up in soft cotton batting.
Like floating in air, all wrapped in fur.
But the pain really dug in and bit, now that I was actually awake.
“Holy Jesus.” I stated through tightly clenched teeth, grinding my jaws as she did something again.
“We have to make sure that this one and this one drain properly.” She announced.
“What…what…?” I asked.
“The doctor will explain all about your wounds.” She said. “But you seem to have regained consciousness, and that was a major hurdle.”
“What’s that fragrance you’re wearing?” I asked in a stronger voice.
I kept swallowing and swallowing. My mouth was so dry. Like glue in the throat.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” She stood there, looking down with the light behind her head.
“Promise?” I asked.
“I promise,” she said. “You go to sleep now.”
“That sounds like a good plan.” I sighed, and then I finally did get to see her smile.
This was important, as it’s kind of nice to know what the love of your life actually looks like.
***
I won’t bore readers with the long story of my recovery, which I suppose has been covered by lots of other writers, (or old soldiers,) but it is probably important to say that I suffered three crushed vertebra in my back, a really badly sprained knee, a broken finger, major concussion, (in two different places,) and two Spandau bullets through the upper legs.
One bullet in each leg.
Lots of bruising, some scrapes and minor burns, and one hell of a black eye. Last, and possibly least, my lips were pretty fat. I looked like the loser in a big-money prize-fight, not that I had a pretty face to begin with. Abrasions, contusions. Et cetera.
Out of the fight. I can understand how some might have been grateful.
I felt like a failure. A couple of short, sharp blows to the head will do that to you.
END
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