Meanwhile, in that very hospital but in a different wing, a nurse named Shelley was taking care of Danforth's bandaged eye.
For the first time after what felt like an eternity, Danforth had nothing to think about which was, in itself, very liberating.
He had to admit that having no responsibilities to think about for a couple of days at least felt extremely good. There were no ammo checks, no revising maps with Ortega and no food or water inventory that needed doing. He didn’t even have to work out.
Truth be told, enjoying every single last drop of all of those privileges was all he needed to do. A real bed with real sheets, electricity, a real safe place to sleep, and most of all, the nurses, like that Shelley.
“I’ll have to come by two times a day, to apply this again” the nurse said, as she showed him a medicating cream.
“You’ll have to stay here at least two nights. We need to keep your eye under observation”
“Whatever you want, sweetie”
She smiled, stood up and walked away without noticing how Danforth was staring at her well-moving bottom”
“Whoa, man” said the black guy lying on the bed beside Danforth's.
Then the two simply nodded at each other while staring at the nurse as she walked away.
***
Evening finally came and, as soon as the sun had set, an exhausted Danforth fell into a kind of drowsy state.
That night he thought yet again of the old man He’d killed back in the US so long ago. It seemed like a lifetime since his last thoughts about him.
Fighting on this mission had been completely different from the gas station robbery.
Every single fucking feeling He’d had during Operation Black Spot had been one hundred times worse than ANY other stupid thing he’d ever done earlier in life.
Black spot had been sheer delirium.
The worst moment of all was when his rifle blew up in his face.
He’d always thought that the phrase 'blow up in your face' when referring to rifles was nothing more than an exaggeration. He’d somehow imagined the odd metal piece flying here and there, but be lethal? Okay, maybe it was possible, but an exploding rifle was certainly no hand grenade.
Experiencing it first-hand however, had made him change his mind.
It was a miracle that he hadn’t lost an eye. In reality, the most incredible thing of all was that he hadn't lost them both.
Not that any of this particularly interested him, that is.
In fact, neither being disabled nor leaving the SOG or so many other things really mattered much to him anymore. It’s certain that the SOG would never have kept him if he was missing an eye, but the truth was that none of these things really meant anything to him now.
In his opinion, simply being alive would more than suffice, and it seemed like a great deal already.
If Messner hadn’t stopped him with that dam helicopter, and he’d kept on chasing the Vietcong's battalion he had have gotten himself killed, along with everyone else on board for sure.
Although he had messed up a couple of important decisions that day, it had nevertheless gone well, actually remarkably well considering how it could have ended up.
He then drifted back to his memories, this time recalling when they’d defended the base.
A rifle blowing up in your face? Come on, that was nothing.
That night on the battlefield, Danforth had stabbed his enemy to death. Not many soldiers out there could say they’d been through something like that and lived to tell about it.
The bullet wound in his shoulder was burning and it made him feel a bit feverish and delusional too.
The moment he closed his eyes he saw an image of himself with a ski mask on. His replica was standing above him looking down, and he was holding a double-barrelled shotgun in his hand.
Danforth’s eyes shot open bringing him back to his dark hospital room and the sound of fellow patients fast asleep.
Fuck – he thought to himself.
What a fucking bad trip.
He managed to calm himself down and shortly thereafter, his eyes closed once more but only to see the same scenario all over again. This time however, he was the old man playing dead on the gas station floor, and standing over him was his replica, the other him, wearing a ski-mask and still holding the double barrelled shotgun.
In other words, his replica, the Joseph in the dream was about to shoot him right in the face.
The double-barrelled shotgun moved to the middle of his forehead and then there was a bang.
Joseph woke up again.
“For fuck's sake buddy, stop your screaming already. That's the third time tonight” said a nearby voice in the darkness.
“Sorry man”
This time, Danforth was covered with sweat and noticing that the shadows had moved some meant he must have slept for at least an hour.
In fact, in that interval he eventually realized that the old man hadn’t actually died instantly.
That very night, after Operation Black Spot, a forgotten detail came back to him.
He recalled the old man inhaling and exhaling at least twice after Danforth had shot him in the face despite having his head smashed in.
Consequently, he hadn’t died there and then on the spot.
Joseph had somehow managed to calm down despite it all
He was getting hot and he could feel pins and needles in his legs.
It reminded him of his last LSD trip about two years ago.
Trying to stay awake wouldn’t be easy.
The moon light shun through the windows and Ortega looked around at the shadows it brought about, when suddenly, out of nowhere it came to him. He was absolutely certain about it.
The old man was the one who had blown his face off with the rifle.
The old man had done it in revenge.
Yeah.
It was a too much of a coincidence to have happened strictly by chance.
Danforth had shot him in the face and the old man returned the favour by blowingthe M16 up in his.
That's okay – Danforth thought.
I guess that makes us even.
Maybe.
Thinking further about it helped him fallback asleep.
As soon as he closed his eyes however, it started all over again.