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Disclaimers: They look like them. They’re not them. They’re mine. Don’t play with them without permission. It’s two women. There is nothing even slightly graphic in the way of s-e-x. There is swearing. Lots of it. There is also a depiction of the aftermath or war. Not particularly graphic though. BTW. There isn’t a hospital/recovery unit that works in quite the way I wanted – so I invented one. It’s actually an amalgam of five which do exist but it in itself doesn’t. I know that recovery in these circumstances wouldn’t be handled from start-to-finish this way but I needed it to be like this. So I invented things. That’s why it’s called fiction. As always thoughts, criticism, praise, offers of favours, etc. to insane_brit@hotmail.com – I may even be able to get the F&$£@ useless thing to work. ........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Tin Soldier By Insane Englishwoman
She didn’t hear the explosion. Didn’t hear the mortar approaching. She didn’t even feel it hit. There was only heat and glare and pain. Then nothing. ............................................... Sorcha Ui Laoghaire drifted awake and became fuzzily aware of two things. The first was that she was stoned. The second thing was that, no matter how much morphine they had pumped into her to make her this stoned, it was not enough. She was still in agony. From mid-thigh down, her right leg felt as though it was on fire. Her left leg was aching below the knee. There was a cast on her left arm and a bandage across her eyes. She assumed her arm was broken but there was no pain, obviously the drug was working on that. She wanted to ask where she was and what had happened. The combination of a dry mouth, a sore throat and the tubes which were causing her to gag slightly, prevented her doing anything other than groan. "Shush there. Easy. You're safe in hospital. Go back to sleep." Sorcha guessed it was a nurse speaking. She managed a whisper, "Hurts." "I know. It will be alright. Sleep." Sorcha felt the nurse reach across her then it all went dark once more. ............................................................................................. When she woke again the pain had moved from excruciating, overwhelming agony to merely everyday agony and she was slightly less stoned. Her arm seemed much better; her left leg no longer hurt. The feelings in her right leg were still at scream level. She wondered if it was possible to have fifth degree burns because the pain seemed to demand more than merely third degree. Her eyes were still covered but she fancied the bandages were thinner and lighter. She coughed; her mouth still too dry to speak, although the tubes which had been such an obstruction were no longer present. "Hold on, corporal. Here, sip this gently." Someone held a straw to her lips. The water was slightly warm but to Sorcha it tasted like nectar. She swirled a small amount around in her mouth before swallowing it as slowly as she could. "Where..." "Shh. Don't attempt to speak. I'll try and tell you the things you need to know. Let me just check your dressings." Sorcha waited while the nurse examined her various hurts. The nurse's hands were gentle. Sorcha felt the sheet being drawn softly over her and then she heard a scraping sound. She assumed, correctly, that the nurse had pulled up a chair. "Well, you seem to be healing nicely, corporal..." "Bombardier." The whisper hurt her throat. "Pardon?" "Bombardier. I'm Royal Artillery, we don't call it corporal, we call it bombardier, ma'am." Sorcha's voice grew stronger as her throat eased. "Right. Bombardier. Well Bombardier, My name is Elsa Flynn and I'm your 'named nurse'. This means I'm your primary carer so you'll come to know me quite well." "Am I blind?" "What? Oh, the bandage over your eyes. No, your eyes were filled with grit by the explosion and badly scratched. We had to wash them out with an antiseptic solution. They'll need to be kept covered and moistened for a few more days but there will be no lasting damage." Sorcha felt some of the tension leave her body. "Thank God." "As you may have realised you have been transported to a hospital in England..." "England? I must be bad. I was expecting to stay in Iraq, or at the most be shipped to a medical base in Germany." "If I might continue..." "Beg pardon, ma'am." "You were injured by an exploding mortar bomb. You were stabilised at the site and then transported home as soon as possible. Your arm is, as you probably realise, broken. It's healing well and there should be no permanent damage. Your left leg was slightly cut by shrapnel. There's no real injury from that but it was also quite badly burned. The surgeon has recommended skin grafts, which will be done as soon as you're well enough. You right leg..." The nurse paused. "Your right leg..." "Please ma'am, tell me how badly it's burned. I know it's pretty bad because -- begging your pardon, ma'am -- it's fucking killing me." "Why ma'am?" "Ma'am? You're an officer, aren't you ma'am? Nurses are always officers." "I'm not in the army, bombardier. You're in a specialist unit in England. It's jointly run by the Ministry of Defence and the NHS. Most of the surgeons are military personnel; most of the nurses are civilians. You can call me Staff or Nurse Flynn if you are most comfortable with formality. I prefer Elsa." "Elsa it is then. Specialist unit? That sounds bad." "I'm so very sorry but your right leg was almost severed by the explosion. What little was left of it was shredded. We had to amputate from mid-thigh. The pain you feel is from the nerve endings not the leg. It will ease once they become accustomed to the lack of response from the amputated segment. Once you're properly healed we will be able to discuss prosthetics. But for now we just need you to concentrate on getting well." "Oh Christ. No. You cut my fucking leg off. No. Tell me you're kidding, please. Fuck. No." "I'm so sorry, bombardier." Elsa reached for the drip and increased the dosage sending Sorcha back into unconsciousness. ............................................................................................ Sorcha first thought on re-awakening was that it didn't hurt quite as much. The second was that she was thirsty. Then she remembered her leg. "Oh Jesus." Instantly Elsa was beside the bed. "Bombardier, are you alright?" "Tell me it was a nightmare. Please tell me my life isn't over." "I'm sorry..." "Will you fucking stop saying that!" "I'm so...I'll try. Do you have any questions?" "The lads? The rest of my squad?" "You were the only survivor." "Please tell me that we at least got the bastards who shelled us." Elsa was silent. Sorcha could almost feel her unease. "Well, did we?" She queried. "It wasn't... it isn't that simple. Unfortunately it was a friendly fire incident." "What? Fuck. Are you telling me the bloody Yanks did this to me?" "Yes. I'm so..." "If you say you're sorry one more bloody time I'm going to crawl out of this fucking bed and beat you to death with the morphine pump. My life is going down the drain and you're sorry. Fuck off and leave me alone." There was a moment of silence. The Sorcha heard footsteps followed by a door closing. She knew that later she would feel guilty for taking things out on the nurse but right now she didn't care. If it hadn't hurt to cry she would have. She had never felt so much despair. Fumbling for the morphine she hit the button twice hoping for temporary oblivion. .................................................................................................... |