Movement Orders
“Medic!”
I looked across
and saw the young soldier who had just arrived, slumped on the floor. I grabbed
my bag and walked over, assessing the wound as I approached. The stain spread from
just above the neck of his flak jacket, slick black on the camouflage material.
Not a gunshot. Ricocheted shrapnel? A blast injury? No sign of flash or burns.
Closer now I saw
the characteristic wide mouth grin with sharp edges. A knife then.
I twisted open a
large field dressing and pressed it to his wound.
“There. Hold it
there and press hard.”
“How bad?”
“It’s fine.”
His tongue
flicked repeatedly, snake like, across blue lips.
“It doesn’t hurt
- can’t be that bad, can it?”
“No.”
His pale sweaty
face held eye whites highlighted by contrast with black camo smears across his smooth
cheeks.
“My wife. I’ve
got to tell my wife.”
“She’s been told.
You’ve got to go now.”
“Go? Where?”
I grabbed his
rough, dusty fatigues and pulled him to his feet, pushed him towards the two
doors in the end wall.
He dropped the
dressing; the stain no longer spreading. He turned.
“Which one?”
“You’ll know.”
They all did in
the end.
200 words
@nickjohns999
This story was written to a prompt from Inspiration Monday
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