We’re going to kick some ass over there, Chief. Aren’t we?
Too young to have a beer but old enough to keep his head calm in battle and die for his country.
In the elevator, she had nowhere to look except down—at the part of her that jutted out, bandaged white, useless.
Stump.
She looked away quickly, feeling sick. And ashamed. How could you live when you didn’t have the courage to look at your own body? The doctors and nurses seemed unconcerned with her cowardice. Repeatedly they’d told her it was normal to be squeamish and afraid, that it was normal to grieve for a lost limb. They assured her that someday she would be her old self again.
Liars.
On the third floor, they rolled out of the elevator and headed through the busy ICU hallway. Here, as before, the personnel were in constant motion.
The nurse stopped outside a closed door. On the metal surface, someone had taped up the soldier’s creed. Not someone. Carl. He had put up these words for his wife, because he understood her so well. He knew what Tami would want everyone coming into her room to know: a soldier lay in this bed.
Jolene hadn’t read these words in years.
I am an American Soldier.
I am a warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat. (This had been underlined. )
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior task and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.
Jolene swallowed hard.
The nurse opened the door and wheeled her into the small high-tech room. Carl sat by the bed, his hands in his lap.
“Jolene,” Carl said, getting to his feet. She could tell by the way he moved that he’d been sitting a long time. “I’ll take her from here,” Carl said to the nurse, who placed a hand on Jolene’s shoulder, left it there long enough to make a point, then left the room.
Carl bent down and lightly kissed Jolene’s bruised cheek. She reached up with her good hand and held his hand. “How is she, Carl?”
He shrugged. “Apparently no one can say anything for certain when it comes to brain injuries. She’s in a coma. We’ll know more when she wakes up. ”
He wheeled her to the bedside. Jolene hated how low she was, like a kid looking up. Already she’d learned how different the world looked from a seated position. Still, she saw Tami’s profile. Her friend’s face was black and blue and misshapen. She looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. A gash split her swollen upper lip. Bandages covered her head, the gauze darkened here and there by blood soaking through. “Help me stand,” Jolene said quietly.
Carl helped her out of the chair, positioned himself beside her, holding her upright.
“Hey, flygirl,” Jolene said. She wanted to touch Tami’s hand, but it took all her strength and concentration to hold herself upright. She clutched the bedrail with her one good hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.