I blink the dust out of my eyes, and run through the standard procedure for a bomb blowing apart a wall on top of you. It must be done verbally. It has kept me sane for a good while now.
"I am William McKinley, Jr. I am a fighter in the 108th National Guard of Her Majesty's Country. It is December of 1962. Must be nearing Christmastime..."
I take several deep breaths. I can speak. I can feel my legs, but check to see that I can move them before clearing the rubble off myself. A once-over tells me I'm bleeding, but otherwise okay. I get the feeling I'm missing something, but for the life of me I can't seem to remember what.
My ears are still ringing a bit, but noises are getting clearer. I can see the officers running around, some injured and some looking for the dead. I stumble over, rifle at the ready.
"Who's hit?"
"Jesus, McKinley, you're still alive? Guess you can have these back then," Davis says as he returns my dog tags and letter home. "You really are one mean motherfucker, aren't you? How long you been fighting again?"
"I was in the 1954 group."
"So just under eight years. Way you took that bomb and got back up, I'dve thought you'd been in since the '10s."
"Is everyone else alright?"
Davis sighs and puts out his cigarette before looking McKinley in the eyes.
"Cheshire and Brooks are gone."
Davis looked almost exactly as wretched as I felt. Cheshire and Brooks...
"They gave their lives. Cheshire will lay in your corner, and Brooks ours."
"Would they want that? They were rather close..."
The implications had hung in the air while they were alive, and were never addressed. They were as good as any one of us in battle, but bringing it up would send them back. Maybe it would've been for the best.
"Their families want them home. Though I'm with you on that front."
We had slowly transitioned to sitting through the course of their short conversation; Davis on the hood of a Jeep while I was on a bit of broken wall. Silence brewed for a minute or two, then Davis spoke.
"You knew them better than I. How old were they?"
"I'm not quite sure. I think they were both in their twenties..."
Davis got back on his feet, whipped his hat off, and looked up at the sky, his face burning with fury for a few moments.
"Lord have mercy on their poor souls, regardless of the bloodshed and..." His voice broke, and he looked down at the medical tent. "It's terrible. It's a war we've gotta fight, but I sure as hell wish nobody was gonna die in it. Especially two boys such as them."
I nod, and also look to the medical tent.
"Go get yourself patched up, Barbell."
I look up, and Davis is indeed looking at me.
"Is that a nickname, or have you been drinking again?"
Davis smiled and shook his head. "It's a nickname. Because you took a fifty pounder and lived. I'll workshop it, but for now that's how it's gonna be."
I get up and head over to the tent. It feels like it takes them a long time to clean and bandage my wounds. I also have to avoid looking at the body bags of my two friends during the whole ordeal.