“I heard it was standard operating procedure. You should be grateful he didn’t have you turn your head and cough.” Stephen slowly responded with a squint, though whether the stabbing pain above his open eye came from the sunlight or something internal, he couldn’t tell.
“You see what happens when they put a silver bird on a dirty leg’s shoulders.” Mayweather routinely took every opportunity to openly mock a commanding officer who hadn’t attended Airborne school.
“Sounded to me like you were having a good time.” Stephen gave a straining smile even though the medic’s pain medications were not keeping up with what was certainly an approaching bulldozer in his head.
Mayweather leaned down towards Stephen’s head to meet him eye to eye. “Seriously, Lantz. That stuff you pulled in there, going back for Waters and all, fighting off those rat-bags and taking it to them man-to-man. And then strapping your boy to your own chest? Brother- that is some serious, high-speed, low-drag action hero shit, right there! I’m telling ya. You should absolutely be thinking about Ranger School.”
“No, thanks.” Stephen waived a dismissing arm.
Mayweather pressed on, “I’m telling ya. After this place, sixty-four days of sunny Fort Benning will be a vacation. Seriously though, it’ll change ya forever.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. They tell me you used to be good looking.”
Mayweather’s laugh peaked beyond his lungs as he rose to his feet. “Now? Now he has jokes? Hey Doc, no more morphine for this one. Just give ’em another rifle and throw him on the next block!” Mayweather started walking away but he was still having an all out party and looked around to survey the day’s work with satisfaction. Calling back to Stephen he said, “Hey, don’t go nowhere. I gotta check in with our new buddies in heavy mech. Waters there has a pretty serious head injury so they’re calling it an immediate triage.”
Stephen was aware of the Army’s triage procedures which gave priority to injuries which threatened life, limb or eyesight. Waters must be in pretty bad shape.
Mayweather continued, “Which means you get to tag along. I heard they were almost done waxing your limo for that nice, smooth and plush ride back to Margaritaville. I’d join you buddy, but you know, there are a few of us who are going to have to stick around and get some work done today.” Mayweather gave his classic wink and click of the mouth to indicate he was saying goodbye to his injured friend.
Mayweather had only taken a few more steps when the all too familiar streaking pitch of a mortar round creased through the clear blue city sky.
“Incoming!” Someone shouted and bodies began to scramble.
The errant round slammed into an upper floor of the building directly behind them. The explosion ripped apart the building and rained chunks of concrete down on their makeshift medical site. Stephen was lying on his back when the round hit and between his injuries and the ultra-strength painkillers coursing through his body, all he could do was raise a single arm above his head in a vain hope of protection. With his one good eye he looked between his fingers to see several large blocks of concrete directly above him descending too fast for him to register.
He was still looking at the rocks when Stephen felt the forceful shove hit him hard from the side. Mayweather’s body slammed onto his torso skidding Stephen against the concrete barrier, into the ground and pressed his cheek deep into the jagged dirt. Mayweather squeezed Stephen from all directions in an attempt to cover as much of his body as possible. Wincing from the pain of the small gravel stones imbedding deeper into the side of his face, Stephen was unable to move. A second later he felt a powerful impact as if a pro wrestler had launched himself from the top rope onto Mayweather’s back. Then another impact. And another, until Mayweather’s grip went limp.
No talking, no gunfire, no sounds. Stephen couldn’t move and his head was positioned helplessly forward, staring straight ahead into the white fog of debris surrounding them. His elbow was elevated on something rough and solid. There was a tremendous pain in his shoulder as it bent his arm awkwardly across his face. The only image he could make out was his own hand directly in front of his eyes, barely distinguishable from the solid chalk that swallowed everything around him. As the dust in the air started to clear, Stephen squinted his eye and saw a slim maroon line forging its way down the skin of his forearm. The steady stream consumed the white chalk as it continued down the path of his arm, beyond his hand, until it formed a teardrop shape at the end of his harshly crooked and immobile finger. The maroon bubble swelled until it dropped, and Stephen’s eyes followed its descent onto the ground. His gaze fixed on the ground when another drop landed, immediately followed by another that splashed into the growing puddle of blood directly in front of his face.
Mile 13
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” The alarmed voice came from directly above Stephen and a hand gripped him under the arm. “That was quite a fall you took. You okay?”
Stephen looked at his graveled covered hand and saw a red stripes in his palm mixed with blood and asphalt. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just zoned out. Must have tripped. Thanks.”
The man held Stephen’s elbow and placed a reassuring arm on his shoulder. “Alright. You’re gonna wanna take a little more care there. You might even want to walk that off for a minute. At this point of the race a lot of people don’t realize how tired they’re getting and they begin drag their feet a bit. Catch a piece of the pavement and you have a little nasty like that. Try to keep those feet up, okey-dokey?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the help.” He gave a nod as the good Samaritan runner picked up his stride again and raced ahead, leaving Stephen with more injury to pride than flesh. Stephen remained bent over on his knees a moment more. Glancing back, Stephen saw the culprit. He had gotten so lost in the memory that avoiding the golf ball sized chunk of asphalt in the road hadn’t even crossed his mind.
This might take a moment. He thought to himself.
Slowly, he straightened his back, stretched his sore leg and starting to walk again. Several other runners passed by with one or two who witnessed the fall, a couple gave commented on his strong recovery and encouraged him to keep pushing through. He brushed the rest of the asphalt off his skinned elbows and repeatedly contracted his fingers to loosen the stiffness of overstretched tendons. He must have been running with clenched fists because his fingers were sore and ached each time he extended them out.
A particularly concerned lady slowed next to him, “Hey there. I saw you fall. Are you okay?” Her caring tone but resolved tone had the hint of a mother’s compassion but it lacked any sympathy whatsoever.
She must be a mother of boys.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Left a little bit of skin and a whole lot pride back there, is all.” He responded with a smile. “Thanks for checking.”
“Alright then. Try to be more careful. Okay, hun.” She instructed and took off at a pace that told Stephen he would not be seeing her again on the course.
Most definitely the mother of boys.
The road didn’t energize him as it had before. Instead of gliding, each step now felt like he was pounding a hole in the ground. He noticed his stride had shortened and around the same time he began feeling a stinging pain on the side of his right toe. The mid-morning sun continued to rise and with it, the air’s temperature. Roaring through the earlier miles, Stephen had felt his shirt sticking to him from the sweat. Now it regularly dripped from his forehead and stung his eyes despite a steady routine of brow wiping with his forearm. He wished he had left the long-sleeved shirt at home. That maniac guy in the yellow singlet was looking pretty brilliant right about now. A small breeze offered a hint of relief, but Stephen continued to feel the warmth beginning its migration through each limb of his body.