“What is it?” The doctor’s gaze sharpened, weariness falling away. “What, Sergeant?”
What was it? Then Papa remembered. “My pluh . . . platoon. My mmmenn, they nnneeed meee . . . you’ve got to . . .”
There was a black space, then, and he found himself opening his eyes again. The doctor was standing up, his face only a couple of feet away and directly overhead, the ceiling behind him-and there were two nurses, too. How had the second one gotten there? But his brain was still fuzzy, very, and it was a major chore to collect his wits enough to ask what he needed to. But what was that? Oh, yes. “Why . . . nurses?”
“Just in case we need her. And this is Dr. Lakin, Sergeant. She only has to finish her test, now.”
“Test?” Then Papa realized there were gossamer tendrils running from someplace above him to the younger nurse—but no, she was a doctor. Why? He lifted his hands to touch his head, find out where those threads went . . .
The doctor stopped him with a gentle touch. “Please, Sergeant. The test’s almost over; then she’ll remove the threads. But you do need to wait a little longer.”
Papa decided that was okay, if the doctor said so. Obviously, what was being done was what needed to be done, and everything was okay. That meant he could sleep for a while, so he cheerfully slipped back into oblivion.
When he woke, the door was stained orange. He realized that had to be the rays of the setting sun reflecting off the wall—must be a window behind him. He was amazed at how clearly and quickly he was thinking. That made him realize that he shouldn’t be amazed, which made him remember how slowly his mind had been working when last he woke.
Then he remembered the hat check.
He sat bolt upright and hit the call-bell.
The door opened in two minutes, and a new nurse looked in. “Oh! You’re awake, Sergeant!”
“Yeah.” Papa frowned. “What happened, Nurse?”
She stared, at a total loss. “Happened?”
“They gave me some kind of test.”
She shook her head. “Not on my time. Hold on, I’ll get your doctor.”
Papa wanted to protest that she could look it up in the records, but the door closed, and he had to choose between being a grouchy patient and hitting the call bell, or being grouchy but patient. He chose the latter—after all, he knew what it was like to be just taking orders.
Finally, the door opened and the doctor came in. He still looked exhausted, but now he looked fresh-wakened, too. Papa felt remorse. “Shouldn’t you go home, Doc?”
“Not when I’m needed. They gave me an apartment on the top floor.” The doctor stepped over, pulling out a tiny light, lifted Papa’s eyelid, and blinded him with a pocket-sized beacon. Through the glare, Papa asked, “What happened?”
The doctor snapped off the light, letting go of the eyelid and straightening up, giving Papa a look that weighed how much he could take.
Papa braced himself. “I’ve seen men die, Doc, and I’ve seen the color of my own blood, by the bucket. I can take it.”
The doctor nodded once, satisfied, but he was still braced as he said, “You had a seizure.”
Not the last one, as it turned out. Papa had another that night, and a third the next day. Then they hit the right pill, and he didn’t have another one for a week. They couldn’t take a chance on fixing the brain damage, because they might have caused more while they were trying—but after that first week, they had him charted well enough to install a little gadget inside his skull, and he never had another one.
“But it might break down, Sergeant. You might run out of power supplies. It might be damaged if you fell.”
Papa braced himself again. “I can take it, Colonel. Hit me straight.“
The colonel’s face was stone, no matter how he felt—probably pretty badly, if he had to glower that way. “You can’t be a Marine any more, Sergeant.”
“What?”
“You can’t.” The colonel braced himself against the man’s anguish. “The gadget might fail in the middle of combat, and you might shake up your whole unit.”
“Shake up Marines?”
“You saw your own sergeant shot when you were a corporal,” the colonel reminded “How did it hit you?”
“I was shaken, but I picked up the pieces and commanded my squad! We finished out the mission!”
“But you might not be lucky enough to have a corporal who is that good.” The colonel shook his head. “Or you might have a seizure during a night attack—and you would do some yelling when it happened, Sergeant. You could give away your platoon’s position.”
That brought Papa up short. Taking a chance on death in battle was one thing—he’d done it every time he went out. But risking his men’s lives was another matter.
“It’s not the end, Sergeant.” The colonel’s voice softened. “There are defense industries. You can still serve.”
“But not in uniform! The Corps has been my life, sir!”
Then Papa sat up straighter, a glint in his eye as the idea hit. “If I can serve out of the Corps, I can serve in it! Give me a desk job, sir! Give me a way to back up the poor rankers who have to go out there!”
The colonel sat frozen, his face still set in concrete while he weighed the chances. There was a time when keeping a disabled man in uniform could have resulted in his accidentally being assigned back to combat. But that couldn’t happen now; once he was coded as a non-combatant, the computers would keep him at a desk. And if he stayed in, he’d have all the fanatic dedication of a convert whereas, if he were cashiered, he’d grow bitter, and might even just sit on the sidelines—or worse.
“All right, Sergeant. You’re back in. But you might not like it.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Papa felt a huge surge of relief, even gratitude. “As long as I can serve.”
Oh, you’ll serve, all right,” the Colonel said. “You’ll serve.”
Papa ripped the cover off the crate.
“Look,” the delivery man said, “it doesn’t matter whether you like ‘em or not. That’s what the Quartermaster sent, so that’s what you get.”
“Might be.” Papa lifted a rifle out, sighted along the barrel, checked the action, then took out the clip and swapped it for one from his pocket.
The deliveryman frowned. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s not part of the shipment!”
“No, but it’s for the same make and model. What’s the matter, friend? Afraid it won’t work?”
“Me?” The deliveryman stared. “Hell, no! What difference does it make to me? I just deliver ‘em! Come on, now, sign, okay?”
“If it works.”Papa sighted at the target on the other side of his depot and squeezed. The huge cavern filled with the drumming of magnum rounds, then went silent.
The delivery man stared at Papa’s hand, the trigger finger still tight. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing,” said Papa, “but the rifle did. It jammed.”
The deliveryman swallowed. “Look, this ain’t no business of mine! I just haul ’em, Sergeant, I don’t make ‘em!”
“You can just haul this crate back, then,” Papa said. “I don’t accept delivery.”
The delivery man began to sweat. “Look, if you don’t sign, they’ll think I’m goldbricking!”
“Not if you give me a different case.”
“I can’t do that,” the delivery man objected. “The rest of the load is for Company D.”
“So?” Papa waved at the back of the truck. “They get this crate, I get one of theirs. Same guns, right?”
“Well, sure, but . . .”
“So you’re giving them what they ordered. What’s the problem?”