Leroy: Lost Then Found

The Swarm

There was no warning, so there was no way to prepare and, in the end, there was no protection from that swarm.

As Platoon Leader he was at the front of that squad of soldiers, unaware until the screaming as to an attack but, as there was no gunfire, this utter disarray unusual at the very least.

It was as if there had been a descent into madness, a lunatic asylum opening its doors replacing those sweat-stained stumbling soldiers with this cast of lunatics waving at the trees, squawking back at those birds.

He would not know the full story of that bee attack for days after he had regained consciousness, tied by his hands and feet to a hospital bed, but he had clearly been airlifted Stateside, that fetid green heavy atmosphere now a crisp clean echoing cavern of this infirmary.

There was that moment on the floor of that jungle, on his knees , folded in that fetal position in complete surrender, when he thought he had reached that last stop, could finally relax and fall into Timmy's arms, be with him again after all those months of anguished nights and resignation in this lonely hell now enclosing him in it's green shroud of foliage and sodden moss.

What little he remembered of those hours after that attack was a blur, the only sensation that of constant movement, jostled as he was passed along, another parcel to be delivered, signed for and handed off at that next depot, carried then rolled, repackaged and strapped to another gurney but even as there were less people around him there was more attention, the quiet announcing that he was closer to whatever destination might await him.

It was a perpetual dream state, those white gauze bandages swirling around his head, wrapped around his face and neck then loosely draped across his torso, a mummified version of himself that he would not see for months.

The drugs kept him in a catatonic state and tho' aware of the room he could not understand any interaction with the staff and, swaddled in gauze from the waist up, it was better that he remain in this passive mode, everyone acting on this assumption.

Initial attention had been paid to his head, those stingers in his mouth immediately addressed while still under heavier doses of morphine, his face and neck finally healing but the majority of those bee stings from the attack covered his back, hands and arms and if it weren't for these wonder drugs he would be in agony.

Those bandages were changed twice a week, a process taking half the day under the observation of doctors painfully lancing infected pustules, followed by a gentle reapplication of salves by that nursing staff. That first month slipped by in a haze of hands-on attention, prodding and prompting his open wounds with those constant procedures.

He could not see, blind to this staff by the damage done in that bee attack, the swelling of his face taking longer than his body to accommodate that allergic reaction. While he could feel his mouth he doubted his ability to talk once they removed that feeding tube, but he had nothing to say in his situation so he opted to remain mute.

There was a palpable sense of fatality, an anxiousness expressed only in whispers as what might be expected once able to open his eyes.

His only ability to tell his days from night were the most basic services once weaned off those catatonic doses of painkillers, that feeding tube and catheter disappearing overnight, introducing an entire new range of physical needs and compliance.

Weeks drifted by on that thinnest clouds of consciousness, repetitious requirements with the hospital staff managing his days, keeping him as an open slot in their laundry list of responsibilities.

To Be Continued...