Scarred for Life

     Two years. That's how long I've been fighting in Vietnam. All that time, and I still don't see the point of this war. Even though I've battled tooth and nail to cause the least amount of bloodshed, I guess setting off a bomb meant as a demonstration and killing a large faction of hidden Viet Cong (38 members to be in fact) is smiled upon. I was awarded some sort of ribbon-honorable service- or something, and rose in rank. Lost an ear and a hand for the trouble. Not to mention the large burn covering the left side of my body.

     I guess I got my wish though. Apparently, my injuries are too severe for me to continue being here. I couldn't even say goodbye to Marcus, they shipped me off to the nearest field hospital so fast. It was all very clinical and cold, but it got the job done. Luckily enough, I wasn't so bad, that they didn't lump me off with the patients in worse condition. I counted my blessings there wasn't a priest waiting for me in the front room; that usually meant you were in the worst shape. They called in a religious figure thinking you'd kick the bucket before any treatment could be given, or that you didn't have much of a future to live for.

     Michelle was the nurse who dressed the bleeding stumps that used to be my ear and hand. After the initial surprise of seeing the state I was in, she was all business, if a bit fiery at times. Once the doctors assured me I wasn't going near Death's door anytime soon, she reverted back to the high-school days and called me an idiot for getting caught in an explosion.

     Before my red-headed neighbor could continue shouting abuse, I grabbed her with my good arm and kissed her. That sure shut her up.