Hung (24 page)

Y
ou already have
…
I think, but don't say. "No, sir. Yes, sir."

B
est to stick
to the fundamentals. I don't even know why I'm experiencing such an immediate, visceral dislike of the officer standing in front of me. I've never met the man, but he reeks of the kind of ‘you go ahead and fight, I'll just stay back here and lead’ attitude that marks out so many of his comrades.

"
S
on
," he begins, and all I can think is whether he really has to call me that – it feels demeaning, "the President's heard about you, and he sends his deepest condolences for what happened to your friend –"

"
T
ommy
," I interject firmly. His name needs to matter, it needs to be remembered, and if no one else wants to bother, then I certainly will.

“
U
h
, yes," the officer continues, slightly less self confidently, "Tommy. I'm here to tell you that you've been awarded the Purple Heart for your injuries."

T
he news doesn't surprise
me. After all, everyone gets a Purple Heart once they've suffered an injury in the field – it's no big deal. What does surprise me is what the fancily dressed officer says next.

"
A
nd the Joint Chiefs
are putting you up for a Silver Star - for bravery in the field."

I
certainly wasn't expecting
him to say that. My leg gives way, and I end up sitting on my bed with a bit of a bump. Lucky, I think absentmindedly to myself, he gave me permission to stand at ease.

"
A
Silver Star
?" I croak, throat suddenly dry. "Sir, I don't deserve that. I just did what anyone would in my place. I don't want it."

H
e looks
at me with a surprisingly kind twinkling in his eye. I wasn't expecting that kind of empathy from the man – at least from what I've experienced of him so far. It makes me think that perhaps, in the midst of the anger and grief that’s come over me since Tommy’s death, maybe I’ve misjudged the man…

"
S
ergeant
, I'm not sure how much you remember what you did out there, but trust me – you're a hero."

"
I
don't think so
, sir," I mumble, voice barely audible.

"
T
rust me
, if you hadn't done what you did, your whole company would have died."

"
T
ommy did
, sir," I mumble, tears prickling my eyes as the memory of the friend I've lost comes to the surface of my mind, overpowering everything else going on in my brain.

S
urprisingly
, the officer sits on the bed next to me, placing a hand on my shoulders. Looking at him through blurred eyes, I see something jump out at me on his uniform that I haven't noticed before – a little silver star. He’s been there, I realize – he’s done things no man should have to, to protect people who will never know. I know, right then and there, that I can trust him.

"
Y
es
, Tommy did," he replies, emotion heavy in his own voice. "And that's going to eat away at you for the rest of your life. Trust me – I know."

S
uddenly
, seeing the little insignia on the left-hand side of his chest, I know he's telling the truth. He's been there, been in my shoes before.

"
B
ut trust me
, Mike – you
are a hero
," he says, punctuating each of the last three words by stabbing his finger into my chest. "What you did up on that hill saved an entire company. They had hundreds of Taliban primed to take the FOB, and you and your partner stopped them. Tommy died so that those men could live."

T
he little stabbing
motions of his finger against my chest are, weirdly, what sends me over the edge, and I break down into tears, Tommy's face the only visible constant in my new blurred reality, a thousand happy memories colliding against the truth of his death. He holds me, not saying another word, just allowing me to sob into his heavily medalled uniform. After a few minutes, I don't know quite how long, I pull myself together, drying my eyes on a tissue pulled from my bedside table.

"
D
o
you want me to sit with you, Mike? I've got nowhere else to be. I've got all day."

"
T
hank you
, sir, but I'd like to be alone – if you don't mind," I reply softly, all antagonism towards the man dissipated.

"
Y
ou got it
, soldier," he says, respectfully touching his head in a caring salute, then pats me on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger, and leaves the room.

***

I
haven't cried
in a long time, not since I was a kid. And even then, I'm not sure I ever cried like this, like a floodgate's been opened, and years of pain and emotion stored behind have flooded out in one long, cathartic flow of torment. I forgot how tiring it was – crying. I feel like I've run a marathon, or gone six rounds in the ring.

I
think
it's the sobbing, the way your stomach clenches and crunches over and over and over. The worst thing about it is there's nothing you can do to stop it, you just have to wait, ride the pain. If you fight it, it's just going to come back, and harder.

I
'm wiping away
the tears when I see her, and if anything, she looks worse than I do. I smear my face with the back of my hand one last time to hide as much of the evidence as I can, but there's no hiding my red, puffy eyes. She's resting on a desk with her head held in her hands, and I watch as she stands there, unmoving, for a whole minute. I realize that she is in a bad way – and that I need to do something about it. It's not a conscious choice, not really, it's more of a drive, or an instinctual urge. I walk over to her, all thoughts of why I initially wanted to find a nurse – to get my discharge from this hospital sorted out – dashed from my mind.

"
Y
ou okay
?" I ask in what I hope is a consoling tone of voice. The last thing I want to do is make it any worse for her, but I don't trust myself to talk much more, not right now.

I
don't think
she realizes it's me, not at first anyway, because she stands up ramrod straight, surging back into position like she's being propelled by a taut elastic band. She turns to look at me, her face naturally returning to a professional, detached glaze, but like me, there’s no hiding the puffiness of her eyes.

"
Y
ou've been crying
," she says, looking up at me with soft, wet eyes. My heart breaks, and I don't know whether it's just because I'm emotionally vulnerable right now, after – after the visit – or whether it's because
she
looks so distraught. I suspect it's the latter. I don't try and hide it.

"
I
have
," I agree. "It's good to cry sometimes, I think," I say, hoping to let her know, maybe too obliquely, that she's got a shoulder to cry on if she needs it. I'm not good at this, though – the emotional stuff, and I don't want to overstep my bounds. At the end of the day I'm just a soldier. I've never tried to be anything else.

K
atie takes up my offer
. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it. She takes a furtive look around, and my eyes can't help but follow hers. I think she's checking to make sure there's no one else left in the ward, and there isn't. It's getting dark outside, the sky has that heavy shade of grey that hits in the moments before dusk falls, and no one who doesn't
have
to be here would bother.

A
pparently satisfied
that we are alone, she collapses into my arms. I'm not expecting it, and I have to brace my shoulder and arm so that the walking stick can share some of the burden. "I'm sorry," she says immediately, realizing from my momentary shudder of pain that she's hurt me, and tries to break away.

"
D
on't worry about it
." I smile, trying to relax my expression as much as I can so that she feels comfortable around me. Truth be told, the feeling of her arms clasped around my shoulders is nice – it's exactly what I need right now, and the last thing I want is for her to go anywhere.

"
I
didn't mean
–" she starts, but I don't give her the opportunity to finish. "I know," I say, smoothing her hair back in a proprietorial, caring manner. She rests her head, chest, apparently satisfied that I'm okay with it, and before long I feel the thin cotton material in my hospital gown sticking against my chest, wet with her drying tears.

"
A
re you okay
?" I ask, somewhat lamely. Like I said, I'm not good at the emotional stuff – but I'm doing my best. I give her a powerful, squeezing hug, hoping that at least she'll feel safe and protected.

"
Y
eah
," she sniffs, not looking up. "Just –" her voice breaks, "just a long day, you know?"

S
he doesn't want
to talk about it. I get that.

"
W
hat about you
?" she asks. "You don't look too hot yourself?"

"
N
o
," I agree, "I've had better days… What a pair we make."

T
he comforting contact
between our two bodies stands in complete contrast to the awkward, stilted conversation. I guess, thinking about it, that conversation can be like that – difficult, harder to manage than our base, animal instincts. I've thought about this sometimes, on a long patrol when your mind wanders, or sitting in a base at the top of some dusty hill for weeks on end – there's something comforting about physical contact.

I
t doesn't matter
if it's with your brother, your sister, your girlfriend, or your buddies – all that matters is that you get it. Sometimes, on a really hard day, I envy wolves. Not the soft fur coat bit, and definitely not the padding around a cold and snowy forest bit, but definitely the bit where they pile on top of each other to keep warm.

T
hat's
what I'm gonna miss most about Tommy, just being able to give him a high five, or him patting me on the shoulder after we get back from patrol.

J
ust the little things
.

C
onversation
, though, that’s a different kettle of fish. When you give your buddy a hug, there's not really too many ways he can interpret that, not many ways he can misunderstand you. Words are hard, though. Hard to say, and harder to get right.

"
D
o
you need to sit down?" she finally asks, and I have to admit, my leg is in some serious pain right now. I've not been taking the painkillers they give me – don't want to scramble my head, don't like the way it feels, and Katie knows that.

"
Y
eah
," I grudgingly agree – not wanting to break this hug. It's the best thing that’s happened to me since I got into this depressing hospital. The best thing since the last time I ended up with my arms clasped around Katie, anyway.

"
C
ome on
," she says, offering me her arm, "let me give you a hand." I don't need it, and we both know that – but like I said, words are hard. Actions, though, are simple. We limp over to my bed, and I sit down.

"
A
ren't
you going to join me?" I ask, when she doesn't sit down next to me. She looks like she's going to say no, so I do my best to wheedle her out of it. "Come on," I say, "just for a minute – what's the harm?"

S
he takes
another furtive little look around, and apparently doesn't see anyone around who could get her in trouble. It's just us left. She takes a seat next to me, leaning into my shoulder on my uninjured side. She’s warm, and soft, and I like it.

W
e sit silently together
for a long time – I don't know exactly how long, the seconds seem to tick away in two minutes, and maybe even longer. After a while, out of nowhere, Katie starts talking to me. She doesn't sound like she wants a conversation; it's just like she's got something she needs to get off her chest – and I like hearing the sound of her voice, so I'm more than happy to oblige.

"
I
don't think
I'm cut out for this, you know," she says, posing a rhetorical question. "I've been here for nine months now, and I just don't think I can take it for much longer. Every day there's something new, something horrible – and it's dragging me down. I felt like that when," her voice cracks, "when I ended up in your bed, and things haven’t changed…"

S
he pauses
, and I wait – wondering if it's time to interject, whether I should just stay quiet and let her work through her problems. I choose the latter option; it doesn't feel like the right time, not yet.