Dak To city Hospital
As Trautman headed back toward the base, Barry Delmore was on the other side of town at the Dak To Hospital, groaning in his bed.
The Afro-American’s face was covered in sweat as he attempted to handle the pain by clenching his teeth and tightening his jaw.
How many of them did you kill last night Delmore? - He asked himself. After the first five however, the others seemed to be jumping for cover rather than hitting the ground dead. In any case, once the element of surprise was gone, everything happened too fast for him to really keep count.
Sons of bitches, bastards.
That night Delmore had finally gotten his revenge, which by that time had taken him two never-ending years to get, but when the time finally came He’d killed a lot of them, a whole lot of them indeed.
Right then and there however, the pain in his shoulder was piercing and the enthusiasm for last night’s carnage was slowly fading.
Oh Jesus – he thought.
This is really excruciating pain.
There was basically no ignoring it.
And Johnny was the one who hit me – he thought.
Friendly fire.
But could he really define friendly fire a single shot that had hit him by mistake? Most importantly of all however, how the hell did it hit him from that far?
Maybe He’d used a satellite trajectory.
All the same, it was too hard to blame Johnny.
Rambo had saved everyone's ass that morning and Delmore knew it.
The pain must have been making him incoherent.
In the chaos of the battle, Rambo had been a little too reckless when He’d planted that claymore. His injury was nothing more than a streak of bad luck, just one of those things that happen when you are in deep shit and you have to take extreme measures in record time.
Of course forgetting Rambo’s mistake was easier for everyone else, but for him who had been hit right in the shoulder, it was a little different.
All that fucking pain sure didn’t help either.
AAARGH – was all he could say.
All in all, he was more disappointed about missing the party than anything else.
That night the entire Baker Team would have celebrated its first victory in Saigon. Everybody except for him that is. He was going to spend his night in that bed like an asshole.
That sucks – he thought.
After all the pain he went through doing the selection process in Fort Bragg (and then training for another year and an half) all the suffering had finally paid off in victory. Yet that night he wouldn’t be there when his mates were going to celebrate it.
He almost felt like He’d fought for nothing.
It was as though He’d spent the last two years waiting for that night, not to mention how much he wanted to celebrate Ortega, Goddamn it.
Ortega had achieved a lot on that mission.
He’d been a hell of a vice-team leader and He’d really split Danforth's burden of command.
Barry hoped that Ortega had an exceptionally good time at the party that night because his friend was oftentimes a little too serious. He was always worrying about something or other and never had a smile on his face even at the best of times.
Delmore was lost in his thoughts – along with pain – when a doctor interrupted him.
“You’re going to need a couple of months son to get over everything, but there won't be any long term consequences. The shot skimmed the bone but not hard enough to shatter It., You wouldn’t have a shoulder at all right now if it had, so you’ll be as good as new again, boy. I know it hurts like hell but I have orders not to give any painkillers to you Special Forces guys unless it’s absolutely crucial. Anyhow, you should cheer up boy 'cause you’re going back to the real world for a week or two at least because in this state you’re no use to anyone anyway. And you’ll be like this for some time, trust me”