“Hello, Mr. Smith.” I hear them call my name. I try to open my eyes again, only to cringe and close them again.
“Light,” I say, trying to talk, but there is a tube down my throat.
“You have been intubated, Lt. Smith. Don’t try to talk,” she says, and I want to rip the tube out of my throat. “We are going to take the tube out,” she says, and my eyes stay closed while I feel the tube down my throat being taken out. I inhale deeply and cough.
“Get him some water.” I hear the door open and then close. “I’m going to close the blinds.” My senses take over as I picture someone walking to the window, and I count their steps to see how big the room is. The blinds are closing, and then I hear her voice again. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
I open one eye just a sliver this time and find the room almost dark. The light from the machines gives off a soft glow, and light from the hallway streams in from the three windows I’m facing. Before I say anything to her, I look around just in case I need to prepare myself. The machines are all behind me, and I spot an IV in my arm. Finally, I look at the doctor with blond hair piled high on her head, wearing a doctor’s lab coat with a stethoscope slung around her neck.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Mallard,” she says softly, “and you’re in Germany.” She answers my next question. “You’re lucky to be alive, Lt. Smith.” Closing my eyes, I try not to think of everyone I left behind. “You were captured for close to fifteen days.” She’s obviously done this before. “And you were rescued last week.” My memories are coming back full force, and I cringe. “You made it all the way here and then went into cardiac arrest. You also flatlined on the table,” she says, and I look at her. “Twice. You had internal bleeding, not to mention a ruptured spleen.”
The door opens, and the nurse comes in with a plastic glass in her hand with a white straw. “Take little sips,” she says gently, and the cool liquid burns all the way down. “Just little sips.”
“How long was I out for?” I ask, my voice harsh.
“We had to place you in a medically induced coma for the past two days.” She smiles. “I’m happy to say that after some physical therapy, you should make a complete recovery.”
“Good to know,” I say, closing my eyes again, my body suddenly feeling drained. “How many?”
I open my eyes, looking at her. “How many of us survived?”
I look to see if she has any reaction, and just as I realized before, she’s done this way too many times because nothing prepares me for her answer. Even if I knew deep down in my heart that I was the only one, hearing it is a totally separate thing. “You’re the only one.” I nod at her, not saying another word. I’ll blame it on the burning in my throat, but in reality, it’s the lump in my throat. I served beside these men who were my brothers, and I would have died for them just as they died for me. “Your commander will be coming by in the morning. Get some rest, Lt. Smith.”
The first thing I did when I ran away five years ago was enlist in the military, and the second was to request a name change. I didn’t want anything to do with McIntyre or Huntington as my last name, so six weeks after I entered the military, I had my name changed to Ethan Smith. It was also the same day my heart turned to stone.
I glance down at the cuts starting to heal on my arms. Looking at my hands, I see the nails that broke while I tried to claw my way to freedom. I close my eyes and hear the voices again.
“We’ve been compromised.” It was the last thing I heard before a bomb exploded right beside us.
When I open my eyes again, I see that I’m safe and in a hospital room. Ripping the cover off my legs, I look down to make sure both limbs are there. I move my toes first and then bend my knees. Then I try to move to a sitting position, but my body screams out, making me stop. When I look down, I see blood starting to soak through the hospital gown. I hiss out when I move, and this time, I feel the blood dripping. I press the button beside me, and the nurse comes in. “Lt. Smith?”
“I’m bleeding,” I say. She looks down, lifting the gown, and I see dark purple welts and where the blood has now soaked through the gauze over the wound. “That doesn’t look good,” I joke. She just looks down at me over the eyeglasses propped on the end of her nose.
“Should I even ask how this happened?” She reminds me of my grandmother, Cristine, straight and to the point. I shake my head, erasing it from my memory.
“I was trying to see if I had both my legs, and if they worked,” I say, and she shakes her head.
“You guys. I’m surprised you didn’t try to get off to make sure that worked, too.” I laugh now but then look down.
“It’ll work,” I say, “right?” She laughs, walking over to grab a pair of gloves and new gauze to change the bandage.
“All fixed,” she says. “You’re lucky the stitches didn’t break open.” She tosses the gloves and the bloody gauze into the garbage. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and get some rest?” She takes off her glasses. “And please don’t try to see if your other member works.”
I laugh as she walks out, and I watch her go to the nurses’ station. She
