'You sure it's worth it?'
That was a question with meaning so deep that few would have understood it. Irvin had done two combat tours, and though Kelly hadn't seen his official 'salad bar' of decorations, he was clearly a man who had circled the block many times. Now Irvin was watching what might well be the destruction of his Marine Corps. Men were dying for hills that were given back as soon as they were taken and the casualties cleared, then to return in six months to repeat the exercise. There was just something in the professional soldier that hated repetition. Although training was just that - they had 'assaulted' the site numerous times - the reality of war was supposed to be one battle for one place. In that way a man could tell what progress was. Before looking forward to a new objective, you could look back to see how far you had come and measure your chance for success by what you had learned before. But the third time you watched men die for the same piece of ground, then you knew. You just knew how things were going to end. Their country was still sending men to that place, asking them to risk their lives for dirt already watered in American blood. The truth was that Irvin would not have voluntarily gone back for a third combat tour. It wasn't a question of courage or dedication or love of country. It was that he knew his life was too valuable to be risked for nothing. Sworn to defend his country, he had a right to ask for something in return - a real mission to fight for, not an abstraction, something real. And yet Irvin felt guilt, felt that he had broken faith, had betrayed the motto of The Corps, Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful. The guilt had compelled him to volunteer for one last mission despite his doubts and questions. Like a man whose beloved wife has slept with another man, Irvin could not stop loving, could not stop caring, and he would accept to himself the guilt unacknowledged by those who had earned it.
'Guns, I can't tell you this, but I will anyway. The place we're hitting, it's a prison camp, like you think, okay?'
Irvin nodded. 'More to it. There has to be.'
'It's not a regular camp. The men there, they're all dead, Guns.' Kelly crushed the beer can. 'I've seen the photos. One guy we identified for sure, Air Force colonel, the NVA said he was killed, and so we think these guys, they'll never come home unless we go get 'em. I don't want to go back either, man. I'm scared, okay? Oh, yeah, I'm good, I'm real good at this stuff. Good training, maybe I have a knack for it.' Kelly shrugged, not wanting to say the next part.
'Yeah. But you can only do it so long.' Irvin handed over another beer.
'I thought three was the limit.'
'I'm a Methodist, not supposed to drink at all.' Irvin chuckled. 'People like us, Mr Clark.'
'Dumb sunzabitches, aren't we? There's Russians in the camp, probably interrogating our people. They're all high-rank, and we think they're all officially dead. They're probably being grilled real hard for what they know, because of who they are. We know they're there, and if we don't do anything... what's that make us?' Kelly stopped himself, suddenly needing to go further, to tell what else he was doing, because he had found someone who might truly understand, and for all his obsession with avenging Pam his soul was becoming heavy with its burden.
'Thank you, Mr Clark. That's a fuckin' mission,' Master Gunnery Sergeant Paul Irvin told the pine trees and the bats. 'So you're first in and last out?'
'I've worked alone before.'
CHAPTER 23
Altruism
'Where am I?' Doris Brown asked in a barely understandable voice.
'Well, you're in my house,' Sandy answered. She sat in the corner of the guest bedroom, switching off the reading light and setting down the paperback she'd been reading for the past few hours.
'How did I get here?'
'A friend brought you here. I'm a nurse. The doctor is downstairs fixing breakfast. How are you feeling?'
'Terrible.' Her eyes closed. 'My head...'
"That's normal, but I know it's bad.' Sandy stood and came over, touching the girl's forehead. No fever, which was good news. Next she felt for a pulse. Strong, regular, though still a touch fast. From the way her eyes were screwed shut, Sandy guessed that the extended barbiturate hangover must have been awful, but that too was normal. The girl smelled from sweating and vomiting. They'd tried to keep her clean, but that had been a losing battle, if a not terribly important one compared to the rest. Until now, perhaps. Doris's skin was sallow and slack, as though the person inside had shrunk. She must have lost ten or fifteen pounds since arriving, and while that wasn't an entirely bad thing, she was so weak that she'd not yet noticed the restraints holding her hands, feet, and waist in place.
'How long?'
'Almost a week.' Sandy took a sponge and wiped her face. 'You gave us quite a scare.' Which was an understatement. No less than seven convulsions, the second of which had almost panicked both nurse and physician, but number seven - a mild one - was eighteen hours behind them now, and the patient's vital signs were stabilized. With luck that phase of her recovery was behind them. Sandy let Doris have some water.
'Thank you,' Doris said in a very small voice. 'Where's Billy and Rick?'
'I don't know who they are,' Sandy replied. It was technically correct. She'd read the articles in the local papers, always stopping short of reading any names. Nurse O'Toole was telling herself that she didn't really know anything. It was a useful internal defense against feelings so mixed that even had she taken the time to figure things out, she knew she would have only confused herself all the more. It was not a time for bare facts. Sarah had convinced her of that. It was a time for riding with the shape of events, not the substance. 'Are they the ones who hurt you?'
Doris was nude except for the restraints and the oversized diapers used on patients unable to manage their bodily functions. It was easier to treat her that way. The horrid marks on her breasts and torso were fading now. What had been ugly, discrete marks of blue and black and purple and red were fading to poorly defined areas of yellow-brown as her body struggled to heal itself. She was young, Sandy told herself, and while not yet healthy, she could become so. Enough to heal, perhaps, inside and outside. Already her systemic infections were responding to the massive doses of antibiotics. The fever was gone, and her body could now turn to the more mundane repair tasks.
Doris turned her head and opened her eyes. 'Why are you doing this for me?'
That answer was an easy one: 'I'm a nurse, Miss Brown. It's my job to take care of sick people.'
'Billy and Rick,' she said next, remembering again. Memory for Doris was a variable and spotty thing, mainly the recollection of pain.
'They're not here,' O'Toole assured her. She paused before going on, and to her surprise found satisfaction in the words: 'I don't think they'll be bothering you again.'
There was almost comprehension in the patient's eyes, Sandy thought. Almost. And that was encouraging.
'I have to go. Please -' She started to move and then noticed the restraints.
'Okay, wait a minute.' Sandy removed the straps. 'You think you can stand today?'
'... try,' she groaned. Doris rose perhaps thirty degrees before her body betrayed her. Sandy got her sitting up, but the girl couldn't quite make her bead sit straight on her neck. Standing her up was even harder, but it wasn't far to the bathroom, and the dignity of making it there was worth the pain and the effort for her patient. Sandy sat her down there, holding her hand. She took the time to dampen a washcloth and do her face.
'That's a step forward,' Sarah Rosen observed from the door. Sandy turned and smiled by way of communicating the patient's condition. They put a robe on her before bringing her back to the bedroom. Sandy changed the linen first, while Sarah got a cup of tea into the patient.