Birdy

at me. There’s fear in his eyes all right. I give him the ‘get up’ signal with my rifle. He jumps up, then the young one, and they both start running with their hands still on top of their heads. I’m pushing myself up with the butt of my rifle when, BAM, it happens.
    I come to, covered with blood and gore. My rifle stock’s broken in two. I try to get up but I pass out again. When I come to a second time, I’m bleary-eyed, my ears are ringing, and my nose and mouth are full of blood. I sit and look up. The two krauts are on the ground in front of me. The shell hit between them and dug a huge hole there, at least one-five-five. I start checking myself out. Most of the gore is from the krauts. I feel a soggy soft spot in my groin, but it doesn’t hurt.
    I try to stand and I can’t. My head buzzes and I fall over. My leg won’t work. I crawl up to the two krauts and they’re both dead. I don’t know how long I was out but it was enough time for them to die; long enough for flies to find them. The sun is up full and it’s a sunny day. It’s the first sun we’ve had in two weeks. There’s no artillery. The world looks new. There’s no sound of fighting from Reuth. It all seems so quiet, I think I might be deaf. I try to say something to hear myself, but there’s something wrong with my jaw. I hear myself moaning as the blackness flows over me. It’s more like going to sleep when you’re really tired. As I pass out, I know that at least I’m not deaf; I heard myself moan.
    The next time I come to, I begin crawling toward the woods. I should just stay there and wait till somebody comes but I’m not thinking. I want to get off the road, out of the open, and into a shady place. I want to get away from the krauts. I hold my hand over the soggy spot and I can feel my intestines bulging against my hand when I move. I don’t have any bandage to put over it so I keep my hand there. It isn’t bleeding much. My head is getting clear. I’m thinking things out, trying to save my ass.
    I crawl down the field to where Richards is still stretched out. I crawl up to him and there’s no blood at all. I have just a minute when I think he might be ‘dogging it’, letting the war go by him, the way I am. His eyes are open and his mouth. He’s dead. I see the piece of shrapnel sticking out the side of his neck. It’s a long thin piece and it’s sticking out like a pen in a pen holder. The skin of his neck is bent in to fit around the rough edge of the cast metal. I’m seeing very clearly in the morning sunlight. I pull out the piece of shrapnel with my good hand. It comes out easily and there’s a short gush of blood. Richards’ neck bends so his face is against the ground. His eyes stay open.
    That’s when I begin cracking up seriously. I hear myself muttering ‘Richards is dead’ over and over like a prayer; it hurts and I can’t stop myself. I lie there beside Richards and can’t move.
    Next thing I remember, De John the medic is over me. He’s asking what’s the matter, where it hurts, but I keep muttering and crying. My jaw hurts up into my ears. Harrington is dead and I’m crying about Richards. Even while I’m crying I know it doesn’t make sense, but I can’t stop. De John tapes in my gut and puts on sulfa but doesn’t give me wound tablets. He looks at my face and pulls another bandage out of his kit. He starts wrapping up the bottom of my face and jaw down to the neck. I can see in his eyes that it’s bad and I’m glad. I’m glad for anything that’ll keep me out of combat. I know I’m even trying to section eight it now. I’m keeping on about Richards when it doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m trying to hold onto whatever advantage I’ve got. I don’t have any pride or honor or anything left. I just have a need to go on living.
    They get a litter to me, carry me back, and then there’s a ride on top of a jeep and into the field hospital. They put me down on a bloody cement floor. I see the dead ones piled in the corner, covered with blankets, boots sticking out. I look for Harrington, but all of them have two boots.
    Now I begin to get the idea that I’m not hurt enough, they’re going to send me back. A T-5 medic squats beside me. He asks me my outfit, name. It hurts too much to talk. I shake my head. He pulls out my dog tags and checks. He looks under the bandages. I feel myself sinking. I’m ready to cry again, to beg them not to send me back. This T-5 is being