June 2010 – In Hospital

Tom didn’t remember much about the first 24 hours. But tiny fragments of memory seemed to have embedded themselves somewhere in his skull. In the days afterwards, he relived the time in a series of short flashes. First came the noises. The furious whirring of the helicopter blades followed by the manic screaming from the medics.

“Cat A! Cat A!”

The world spun frantically around him, as he was unceremoniously manoeuvred from the helicopter to the stretcher. Medical personnel descended on him from all sides.

A kaleidoscope of colour exploded in front of the young Private’s eyes. The red crosses, the crimson blood and the blues and whites of the medical equipment were in acute contrast to the unremitting drab beige of the desert landscape to which he’d grown accustomed.

Tom was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his left leg. He screamed as the pain bolted up through his body. Then came a shout.

“Give me that fucking syringe!”

And at that the memories ceased.

Apparently he’d been out of it on morphine in the Camp Bastion field hospital for a few days. But gradually the mist of the drug began to lift, and he started to drift back to consciousness. First things first, he checked he had all his limbs. His head sank back onto his pillows in relief. They were all there.

Something didn’t seem right with his lower left leg though. It was covered with dressings, so he couldn’t see much. But it wasn’t moving properly. Still he was alive and he seemed basically intact. That would have to do for now.

Tom had been laid up for over a week. The hospital was cleaner then he expected given its location, and he was in a room of his own at the moment. The medic on his rounds this morning had been happy with the way his injury was healing. Apparently for the first few hours it had been touch and go whether he would be able to keep his lower leg.

The doctors had been insistent that he got out of bed as soon as he could. Once they had managed to reduce his dose of morphine, they’d given him some crutches and he’d progressed to the stage where he could slowly make his way down the corridor to the toilet, under his own steam.

His return home was scheduled for the next day. He was due to spend a few weeks in hospital and then down to Headley Court with the physios before returning home. Apparently, it looked like six months sick leave. His gear had been brought to the hospital for him and he was standing holding onto the bed, watching one of the orderlies pack it away.

There weren’t many personal belongings. An envelope with a few photos of Eve and Chloe and that was about it. But glancing at the pile of clothing to be put away, he spotted an object lying by his photo container. Looked like some sort of wallet. He poked at it with one of his crutches.

“That’s not mine. Some sort of mistake.”

The orderly looked towards where he was pointing.

“ No, it’s yours alright. One of the Afghan cleaners said he’d been told it was a gift for you. Wouldn’t say from who. But he knew your name.”

“But…..”

“Look, just take it will you. Otherwise you’ll cause me a right pain. I’ll be filling in forms ‘till I get back home.”

Tom couldn’t be bothered arguing. His strength hadn’t recovered to that extent. So he just shrugged, collapsed back down onto the bed and let the packer get on with it.