Lifesaver
By Linea Jantz
The woman’s fingers clenched like iron teeth around her husband’s hand. She was practically growling at Death, a rabid dog with snarl bared. This man is mine.
Her husband fought his battle for life the way the woman said he did everything–quietly. Steadily. She did not cry. She was a soldier on endless guard duty. She hunched in a chair in the corner, sipping sleep in brief cat naps.
The nurse had never been more jealous of a man he did not know. What would it be like to be loved with such ferocity?
The nurse checked vitals, switched out a bag on the IV. “You know, I used to be a medic. In the Army,” he threw over his shoulder to the woman watching his every move with measuring eyes.
“We’re pacifists,” she said shortly.
He almost laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed. But good for you.”
Then he turned to meet her eyes. “I know a fighter when I see one. This is a worthy battle, but if you don’t get some sleep, you won’t be any good to anyone. Your mental capacity will deteriorate. Important situations will come up with your husband’s condition. If you don’t recharge while the gunfire is quiet, so to speak, you won’t have your full strength to draw on when that happens.”
Slowly, the woman nodded.
“Do I have your permission to try and find some type of cot to bring in here?”
The woman nodded again. Then she took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she looked at his nametag, “Cord.”
#
Cord was back in the caves, footfalls echoing in the dark. A pair of mismatched legs knocked against the rock walls, dragging behind him like creepy balloons. A severed hand floated curiously over his shoulder. A mismatched pair of feet bumped at his spine like amputated wings.
Shane lay on the ground. His chest was blown open, heart shuddering between spongy lungs.
Shane walked into the cave, uninjured. Cord said something that made him laugh.
Shane dragged the prisoner into Cord’s field hospital. The prisoner was bruised and bloody, delirious. He was dying.
Cord slid an IV into the prisoner’s vein. It was not a kindness. He knew all that waited for the man on the bed was more pain…torture…isolation in a dark cell. Cord felt no pity.
“Just tell us where he is,” Shane hissed in the prisoner’s ear as Cord stitched. A hand clamped around Shane’s ankle.
Shane lay on the ground, chest blown open, heart shuddering between spongy lungs. They were too late. If only they had found out where he was being held sooner…
Cord tried everything he knew to save his friend. Shane died convulsing under his knife.
The prisoner was convulsing, convulsing. Was he even Al Qaeda or just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Cord walked through the ICU, sprinkling blankets among the patients like candy from a parade float. Bloody arms, legs, and dismembered feet dragged themselves around the hospital wing floor.
“What a saint,” the woman with the dying husband murmured.
Cord stopped to check on the woman’s husband. The prisoner, battered and bloody, stood behind him and looked over his shoulder.
Shane lay on the bed, heart shuddering between spongy lungs.
#
Cord woke up a little past 11 a.m., sheets twisted and sweat-soaked from the nightmares. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he drove to the Afghan restaurant–the one that always made him frown when he saw an advertisement. It was a terrible idea but he didn’t turn back.
The restaurant was in a small strip mall by a payday loan place and a Dollar Store. Cord wasn’t sure what to expect when he walked inside but it looked like any other cafe, rolled out fake wood floors, a smattering of tables, a little glass display case of baklava by the register. In a corner was a section set up with red sitting pillows and a plush Persian rug for the people who wanted a more “authentic” experience.
A couple young women–maybe college students–were sitting on the pillows and eating the last of their meal clumsily with their hands. They had a bunch of pennies and dimes laid out beside them and looked increasingly distraught. A middle-aged man with desert olive skin walked over to them.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
The blonde looked up at him apologetically. “We have a gift card for the food but we don’t have enough cash for a decent tip. The waiter did a great job. We don’t want to insult him!”
The man looked floored. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills and dropped them on the table.
“There, for his tip. Don’t worry. He is taken care of.”
As Cord was seated by a waiter and gave his order, he kept half an eye on the man who appeared to be the owner. A homeless man was picking through an abandoned plate on a table outside. A waiter murmured to the owner who nodded and headed outside. Cord wondered what he would do.
The owner put a hand on the man’s shoulder and appeared to be talking to him. The two came inside together. The owner sat the man at a table and brought him a plate of food and a cup of tea. He clapped the man on the shoulder again and said something that made the man laugh, revealing a few missing teeth.
As Cord neared the end of his meal, the owner stopped by his table. “How was it, my friend?”
“It was delicious,” Cord assured him, face arranged into a proper smile. Then God knows what made him say it. “Tashakkor.”
The owner looked surprised. Then delighted. “You speak my language?” he asked.
Shame licked at Cord’s ribs. “A bit,” he all but whispered. Then, “Though you probably wouldn’t be happy to know why.”
“Ah,” said the owner, eyes shuttering. He spoke carefully. “Soldier?”
There was relief in it all of a sudden. Permission to be honest.
“U.S. Army. I served two tours in your country.”
The owner’s formerly open, friendly face was unreadable. “My son…did not have a good experience with your soldiers.”
“Ah,” said Cord. His eyes dropped to his plate a moment. “I am sorry to hear that.”
The owner nodded. Then he huffed a breath out and his eyes locked onto Cord’s. “It is easy to preach peace when you have no one to avenge, yes?”
The owner looked around the restaurant with tired eyes. “Most of these people don’t understand that.”
Cord nodded slowly.
The owner pulled his friendly demeanor back over his face like a cloak. “Salaam, Soldier,” he said before he walked off.
“Salaam,” Cord agreed softly.
Peace.
****
Linea Jantz is the daughter, sister, and sister-in-law of Army veterans. She has worked in roles including waste management, medical records, social services, teacher, and paralegal. Among other adventures, she taught Business English in Ukraine (pre-invasion) and helped film a short documentary about women entrepreneurs in the state of Chiapas, Mexico. Her writing can be found in publications including The Greyhound Journal and Giant Robot Poems: On Mecha-Human Culture, Science & War published by Middle West Press.