He thought of doing something about it, but it seemed like too much trouble, so he fell asleep again, drifting in and out for an indeterminate period that seemed quite long.
The next day he awoke more or less alert. The ward was less than half full, but he had a neighbor in the bed on his left, his right leg also elevated and in a cast. The man was reading a paperback.
Macurdy lay quiet for a while, searching his mind for what had happened, and finding nothing. So he interrupted the reader. “Where am I?” he asked.
The man looked at him. “The base hospital in Oujda.”
“What happened to me?”
“Damned if I know. A medic can probably tell you. How’s your leg feel?”
Macurdy gathered focus and looked again at the aura around it, more clearly than before. It was still shrunken, but a little less chaotic. “Busier” now; the leg was trying to heal. It was also dark with pain, more pain than the hard-edged ache he felt. He was still doped up, he decided, but not nearly as much as he had been.
“Not too bad. I’d like to know what happened though. What happened to you?”
“I’m in the 505th Parachute Infantry. We jumped on an exercise in the hills east of Jerada, five days ago. It was pretty windy, and I came down in a ravine full of rocks.” He paused. “What outfit are you with?”
“The 509th.”
“Ah! One of those! See any combat, did you?”
“Not much. We took some shelling at Tafaraoui, and swapped shots on a night patrol I was on out of Gafsa, but the only real fighting I saw was when we drove the Germans off Faid Pass.”
He paused. “Not all that much-some companies got morebut enough to get the feel of things. We had almost as many casualties jumping and training as we did fighting.” He chuckled. “And barroom casualties here in Oujda. I stay clear of those. I’m basically a peaceful man.”
The 505er laughed. “Me too. I’m thirty years old; I leave those bullshit brawls to the kids. My name’s Keith. Staff Sergeant Fred Keith, from Gwynn, Michigan.”
“Mine’s Curtis Macurdy, from Washington County, Indiana by way of Nehtaka, Oregon. I’m a staff sergeant too.”
They were interrupted by a nurse. “How are we doing, Sergeant Macurdy?”
“Could be better. What happened to me?”
“You were run over by a loaded truck. The surgeons spent several hours putting your bones back together. You have enough pins in your leg to make a magnet spin.”
“Huh! How long do they figure I’ll be in here?”
“Two months if you’re lucky-if healing progresses the way we hope. Then another month or two in rehab.”
Her aura told him she was withholding from him. “Then what?” he asked.
“You should be able to walk normally.”
“What about jumping? Parachuting.”
Her eyes evaded his. “The doctor can tell you more about that than I can.” She sensed his awareness, and added: “I expect you’ll get a non-combat assignment.”
Inwardly Macurdy smiled. FU give them something to think about, he told himself as she left, and decided that complete recovery in ten days would be about right.
Meanwhile his neighbor stared at him. Two months! Keith thought. He didn’t commiserate though didn’t know how Macurdy felt about it. At any rate, his neighbor from the 509th seemed to have his attention elsewhere.
Actually, Macurdy was examining the aura around his good leg, imaging it mentally as a basis for working on the damaged one. If need be, he could heal by the feel, but he preferred having a base line. He couldn’t get at it very well with his hands, but he could do a good enough job using his eyes and mind. And this project, he told himself, would improve that skill.
The next day, when a visitor arrived to see Keith, Macurdy was reading, and paid no attention till the man spoke. “How you doing, sarge? The guys said to tell you they want you back before we get shipped somewhere.” It was the voice that grabbed Macurdy’s attention, jerking his gaze from the page.
“Any rumors?” Keith asked.