Jesus fucking Christ. A shot to the elbow was ALL he needed at this point in time—as if the neck injury a few months back wasn’t enough. Of course, Doc Roe received the brunt of his complaints in the beginning as Joe PLEADED with him to keep him from the aid station, to just wrap it up & let him go on his merry way. But Roe insisted it could become infected & Joe HAD to go. That was strike one. Strike two came much, much later when the doctors of the aid station decided that the injury was much too severe & that Joe had to be transported out. It was safe to say that Joe Liebgott did not go quietly & the muttered C O M P L A I N T S under his breath could be heard all the way to London.
Feet move against the wooden floor s l o w l y, the devilish GRIN spread wide across the paratroopers face as he makes his way back from the chow hall. He’s been here only a week & while he’s glad to be out of the SHIT for awhile, he can’t help but notice the lingering feeling of G U I L T resting just beneath his skin. Ah, like it matters. If he had any say in it, he’d be back on the lines before this time next week—no, he WOULD be back on the lines this time next week.
But for now, he’s enjoying it… hot chow something he’d hadn’t enjoyed in what seemed like months, a warm bed to call his own, & showers—Christ, how he missed those. & he’s just about to head back to his room when a FAMILIAR laugh echos through the hall causing the paratroopers head to turn in the direction of the noise. It then when he sees him, David-fucking-Webster in all his glory. Strike. fucking. three.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters to himself as his eyes fixate on the other, features pulling tight as his jaw clenches in response, “you gotta be fucking kidding me.”
the hospital is full of stories. the surgeon’s knife strips away the layers of dirt and grime the soldiers have been using to cover up their fear & their shame and for fleeting seconds, david thinks he can see who these men truly are. or who they WERE, before the war.
his glimpses into the stories are always fleeting: a glance at an old photograph, tucked away behind a pillow. . . a quiet sob from the other side of the hospital, late at night when everyone is asleep . . . but david doesn’t ask questions. he doesn’t intrude. like always, he just watches.
& if his own story consists of nothing more than the fragments of everyone else’s story, he pretends not to notice.
BESIDES, he has acquaintances here. he’s not sure if he could call them friends, and he certainly doesn’t think of them as brothers, but he’s found some sort of kinship amongst these common soldiers, most of whom feel no desire to make a name for themselves as a paratrooper or officer. they are draftees, for the most part. & none of them are in a rush to leave.
but none of them are toccoa men, either.
he’s absentmindedly listening to some crude story told by the resident womanizer in the hall next to him, laughing in the appropriate places, when a shadow of a voice calls to him.
----joe liebgott is not a snippet of a story. he is LIFE in all it’s ugly, painful, extremities. & he will not allow david to be an observer any longer. the gig is up. he stumbles to his feet.
“ what? ” he manages, meekness covered by a strange grimace. “ liebgott? are you hurt? ”
it’s a stupid question.
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