Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

She's Momma's Good Girl

Log Base Delta
Sarajevo International Airport
Sarajevo, Bosnia (Contested Zone)
11 June, 1992
0200 Hours Local - Wednesday

Operation Shield Strike - Day 13

CW2 Cromwell, Heather - 15th FSB, Task Force Hatchet

The wounded had kept coming. I worked as fast as possible, the rest of the surgical team running from the airport terminal to the positive pressure treatment tent. Meatball surgery as Hawkeye Pierce would have said. They'd brought in three of the snipers at the end of it all. I'd saved mine. He only had a single M-16A2 through the chest, easy enough to stabilize.

The Chinook took off, carrying the last of our patients out. The wounded were  being taken  to the USS Saratoga where they had actual ship's surgeons and proper recovery and isolation units. Colonel Krait was going to keep his leg, Peel had stabilized him, I'd treated the wound, saved his leg, saved his hip, even probably saved the joint itself.

Still, the doctors on the USS Saratoga would have better instruments than me, more experience, be  better at surgical procedures that I didn't know how to do.

"I want you to go back to isolation, Peel," I told her. The Log Base was dark, full light discipline being maintained due to sniper risk as well as the possibility of mortars or artillery fire.

"How come I didn't get to ride on the helicopter, Momma?" Peel asked me. She was watching the helicopter's lights vanish into the distance.

"You're not infectious, but you're still suffering from the BZ, sweety," I told her. I turned and looked at her, then stared. "Where did you get your SAW, sweety?"

"A Marine had it. I told him he could give it back or I'd rip his throat out with my teethy teeth teeth," She smiled at me. She blew a rasberry at me. "Meep meep."

I heaved a sigh. "Go find a bunk, Peel. Get some rest."

"Yes, Momma," she said. She sighed. "My skin isn't all tingly inside any more," she stopped a couple of steps away. "I feel like I'm going to sleep."

"I know, honey. Just try to get some rest," I told her.

"Goodnight, Momma. I mean, goodnight, Chief," She walked off, toward the tent where Charlie Company was staying.

I sighed, watching her leave. I lit a cigarette, ambling back toward my tent. I had a hell of a bruise on my tit and that rib had definitely cracked. I was exhausted, more than if I had run twenty miles in full gear. Surgery was weird that way. Exhausting you. Leaving your muscles trembling and rubbery, your nerves dead, numbness that slowly filled your fingers and toes.

I was thinking about how I'd love a hot shower, how I'd love to just stand under the hot water and let it wash the exhaustion off of my numb skin. Part of my brain was already in the shower. I'd go in my tent, get my personal hygiene kit, grab a towel and my PT's, scrub my pits and ass crack, scoop out my gash, and collapse in my bunk. I pulled a chemlight out of my pocket, stripping away the foil and just letting it blow away.

My tent was  pitch black when I walked in, not enough light even for my vision to see by. I cracked the chemlight and shook it, tossing it at my bed. It landed on my sleeping bag and I tossed my M-3A1 next to it. I rubbed my eyes, stepping forward and turning around, sitting down blind. I opened my eyes and looked up.

And almost screamed.

Stillwater's one eye stared at me in the darkness. His BDU's were filthy, ripped and sealed up with 100 mph tape. He had a cravat over his bad eye, the lens on his glasses over his bad eye cracked. Next to him a guy in BDU's was kneeling, hogtied and gagged, a blindfold over his eyes.