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A Soldier's tale	By : Dragonlady Category: S through Z > The Sharpe Books Views: 2485 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the books or series Sharpe or any of the characters therein, I write only for my own pleasure and I make no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter 2
Over the next few weeks I live in a haze of Hell and medication – pain, dressings changes, more pain, physio’s poking at me, Psych’s trying to get me to ‘talk’, the list goes on.
As the days go by I feel myself plunge into the realms of such a depression as I have never known – I’m finished – my career is over – what am I worth now – nothing – not a damn penny – I am nothing now – reduced to a barely alive lump of flesh – no use to anyone.
I cry like no man ever should, I refuse every morsel of food they try to give me and end up with the indignity of being tube fed - a tube which I have so far pulled out several times – only to have them shove it back in again; I give up speaking to the Psych’s and attempting any physio – I don’t want to see anyone, I don’t want to be here– I don’t want to live anymore, why don’t they get it I DON’T WANT TO LIVE!!!!
My salvation comes some weeks later after all the tubes and drains have been removed except the one in my stomach - in the form of a visitor – not to me but to the man next to me. I say a man but he was barely a boy, a woman comes to see the boy and unthinking I end up listening in to their conversation.
“Hello – Teresa.” The boy’s voice sounds strange-slow, stilted and punctuated by odd noises.
“Hi there Matt, how are you today?” Her voice sounds like a melody.
“I’m – not too – bad thanks.”
“It sounds like you’re slowly getting used to talking again – it’s not easy is it?”
“No – it still – sounds weird.”
I reach out for my remote and lift the head of my bed a bit – I open my eyes just a crack so I can see them – the boy is flat on his back; hoses and tubing everywhere. I realise just before the next time I hear him speak what the odd sound is – it’s the whooshing noise of the air/oxygen mix fed to him through the ventilator he’s attached to.
I can see the back of this beautiful girl with long black hair; as she goes up to the machinery and seems to check it before glancing over to my bed – I don’t know if she realises that I have been listening to her – or that I can see her.
Suddenly it dawns on me – I’m not like this lad, I’m not completely paralysed- I’m not a quad; I can still move my upper body, it’s not as if I can’t breathe or move my arms – my upper body although scarred after my past missions is still strong.
I snap my eyes open suddenly – as I realise that I can do things for myself – I won’t be like this poor guy next to me, dependent on everybody for everything and machinery just to stay alive – it reminds me of the song ‘One’ by Metallica and it’s enough to make me shiver.
I slowly drag myself out of the downward spiral of depression - despite throwing up and then collapsing completely the first time they sat me upright – (corseted tightly in my rigid plastic spine brace and in my wheelchair it was awful) – I refuse to give up and gradually I’m getting used to the wheelchair.
I start to eat again properly (meaning they can finally take the tube out of my stomach) –asking for meat especially – with protein and exercise maybe I can keep my upper body fit; I ask the physio if they can shift me around so that I can work my upper body several times a day – the feeling has returned to the rest of my spine now that the bruising has gone, I can breathe easier now my ribs are healing, and I’m slowly regaining my balance with an occasional wobble – losing most of your legs makes balancing harder than you’d think. I don’t think anyone realises how heavy half a leg is let alone the lower half of two legs.
The nurses figure a way for me to sit in the wheelchair I now call home without sliding forward so that I can work with the weights and not overbalance – the leather gloves I wear and the straps holding my stumps make me feel like some sort of bondage victim at first – the thought makes me smile for the first time in weeks.
A few weeks later I have returned from physio, I’ve towelled myself off and I am sliding back over onto my bed when I notice the girl with the long jet black hair is sitting in the chair beside my bed where she seems to be waiting for the boy to return.
“Hi.” This is the first time she has spoken to me.
“Hello.” I smile at her as I slide over a bit further and nearly lose my balance – her hand shoots out to level the board which has tipped precariously forwards.
“Thanks; I’m still getting the hang of this.” I grunt and pick my bodyweight up onto my hands tip my stumps forward and walk my hands crab-like across my bed supporting my entire body on them.
“Hey, that’s pretty good!”
“I just find it’s easier sometimes.”
She smiles at me and for the first time since I came here I don’t feel as though it’s a smile of pity.
She sits and talks to me for a while.
“Where’s the boy?” – I gesture to the bed next to me.
“Ahh Matt, he’s in ITU at the moment – his condition isn’t good.”
“Poor kid, he doesn’t look very old.”
“No, Matt is just 18, he was paralysed from the neck down during a training accident.”
“That’s why he can’t breathe then.” I remember seeing this sort of scenario during my training.
“Yes;” she looks at my tattoos “You’re a soldier too?”
“I was; I was caught in an IED blast.”
“Ah, I see.”
She doesn’t seem surprised or ask what an IED is.
“I’m a therapist attached to the hospital; I work to promote speech in vented patients like Matt and to help paralysed patients get used to their new lives.”
“You’re a therapist?” I can’t help the disgust in my voice as I say it.
She laughs and doesn’t take offense at my tone which makes me smile a little.
“Yes I’m a therapist but not NHS, I’m military too – trained as a nurse originally.”
I frown at her – eyeing her suspiciously for a moment; “you weren’t sent here to talk to me were you?”
“No, I came here because I’m used to doing it – I forgot Matt had been moved into ITU.”
“Would you like to come outside into the atrium?”
She looks at me with a start – and then smiles “That would be lovely.”
I pull myself back over to my wheelchair and drop into it with a soft thud – taking my arms out to the wheels I push myself along the ward into the corridor- I glance over my shoulder and notice that she is following me.
I push myself into the atrium garden square – it is so good being outside again – I hate being shut in.
I wait for her; she sits down onto the seats opposite me and closes her eyes and takes a deep breath – “Oh lovely.”
“Will you tell me about yourself?” I hear her ask.
“Well I was born in London and I’ve been in the military since I was 17, been posted here, there and everywhere, gone up through the ranks, had my fair share of injuries but always bounced back.” I stop for a moment. “Then this time things didn’t turn out right – I got caught in the IED blast that killed a carrier full of my men – and I lost my legs in the process.”
It was the first time I had ever told anyone this and I’ve never admitted to myself what has happened.
“What is your name?”
“Richard Sharpe, former rank Major.”
“I’m Teresa, – Teresa Moreno, of Spanish decent hence the surname – my rank is Senior Sister.”
Suddenly a few spots of rain fall on my shoulder and I see her shiver – “We should go back in now; it’s going to rain…..” As soon as I mention the word it starts a torrential downpour.
We rush back indoors as the rain soaks us both and we stop in the glass portion of the atrium.
She looks at me in her soaking wet clothes her eyelashes spiky like a starfish and to me no woman has ever looked more beautiful. I swallow as I realise how wonderful she looks.
“Me and my big mouth”! I let out a sigh.
She laughs, “We’d better get back you don’t need a cold!”
I wheel myself slowly back to the ward and take my T-shirt off – I notice her look at me as I take it off she takes in my strong upper body, my tattoos and my skin still criss-crossed with scars and marks.
I start to remove my shorts – I’ve found it easier to wear these than trousers.
She smiles at me – “can I come to see you tomorrow?”
“Sure you can Lass.”
She leaves as I wriggle over onto my bed and drag off my shorts.
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A Soldier's tale