THE FRONT: PART 7
"You my friend, are lucky, the shrapnel merely tore some skin and fur away, however you did have minor stage hypothermia so we are keeping you for observation." Scott nodded, his wounds were bandaged up and he was lying on a cot, knowing with a sort of sick dread in the pit of his stomach that he would soon be returning to the trenches.
After all, as the medic never tired of telling him, his wounds were not serious and in fact were little more than common garden type lacerations. But still, he was getting a Wound Stripe for his injury, and that would delay the process a little. A Wound Stripe was a small brass plate inscribed with the words THE WOUNDED STRIPE, and was to be worn on the left breast of the uniform. It was given to anthros who had been injured in combat and was fairly common among the front line combat troops.
"Sir?" Asked Scott, the medic nodded, then looked over at several soldiers hustling a stretcher in through the door and beckoned for scott to wait. There was an ermine stretched out over the canvas frame, his stomach had been torn by a piece of shrapnel, or perhaps a bullet and Scott could clearly see a part of his diaphragm. He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to control the nausea that was rising up in his stomach.
"A shell exploded right above our trench, Sergeant Baker didn't get to his dugout in time." Said one soldier, a badger, shakily. He had wire rimmed glasses and one lens was cracked. But the medic wasn't listening, he had called a nurse over and took the wounded ermine away.
The soldiers left, each one looking at the wounded, envious that at least they didn't have to be in the trenches, braving the shell fire and the constant attacks. Scott watched them depart and silently wished that he would be sent home, he didn't want to die.
He had joined the army because of a lust for adventure, not once thinking that perhaps the gaily colored recruiting posters were misleading him. He had sweated through Basic School, enduring each and every taunt that the sergeants had hurled at him as he memorized marches and drills, every moment thinking of the medals and acclaim that he would soon be winning on the Front.
But as he thought of that scott felt a deep stab of self loathing, he was no hero, he had just cowered behind his parapet when the Germans had attacked while the others had hurled themselves into the fight. He had survived, but through cowardice, and as he thought of that, he wondered what difference he could have made.
As he lay on his cot, he felt the shame running through him and suddenly he knew, he had to redeem himself. And with that thought in his head, Scott stared at the canvas ceiling of the hospital and counted down the hours until he would get his Wound Stripe and head back into combat.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART EIGHT...