upstairsfromreality

My leave did not come through, of course. It never did. Never in that stream of young bodies to my table did we get a break long enough for me to actually stop for a few days, a week, or wonder of wonders, two weeks. The most that I, or any surgeon, got during those awful last few months was assignment to more minor cases, just long enough to let me catch my breath before going back to gangrene and gassed lungs and shattered limbs. That was how I found myself walking towards the post-surgical ward, checking on the American soldiers whose light wounds I had stitched up the day before.

As I approached the door, I heard one of them say to the other, "Bull biscuits, Miller! You're no more eighteen than I am." I waited ten seconds before opening the door, so the boys wouldn't know an officer had heard them. I strode up to the most likely culprit for the speech, a handsome lad in spectacles whose pallor had more to do with worry over his future than his very slight blood loss.

"Private Potter, is it? I'm Major Watson. I operated on your arm yesterday." I always asked the name the first time I spoke to one of the lads. Identity discs got blown off and charts mislabeled all too often for our patients.

"Yes, sir. How am I, sir?" asked Potter.

"You'll be fine. In fact, we're sending you back to your unit soon. The bullet was easy to see on your X-ray. Didn't hit any bones or nerves, so all I had to do was pluck it out, stop your bleeding, and stitch you up. Only odd thing in the case was, the X-ray showed your bones haven't stopped growing yet. Thats not common in an eighteen-year-old. Looks like you've got another inch or two of height coming."

The boy smiled, since even lying in bed he looked almost too short to be accepted in the army. I expected him to try to cover his mistake, but he was curious, instead. "Can you really tell how old I am from an X-ray picture? I've read about them, but never seen one?"

"Of course we can, private. Growing bone looks whiter than bone that's growing. Here, take a look."

I showed the boy his X-ray and was surprised to hear him muttering, "Just missed my ulna, then."

Looking over, I noticed his intent expression as he inwardly compared the picture to something he had seen before. A specimen? An anatomy book? Or maybe just bones in general. "Are you interested in medicine, Potter?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I just finished high school before I signed up, so I'll be able to go to college and then med school as soon as I get back to Missouri. If I get back. I want to be a surgeon." He flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as my stitches pulled.

"Don't you worry about that.," I said. "Your hand will be fine. I told you no bones got hit." I didn't mention the risk of infection, which could still kill any boy in this room. No need to worry them.

I turned to go, but something held me back. "One more thing Potter. Don't worry about not being eighteen yet, either. You'll do fine. There's only two ages in this war anyway. Too damn young — and too damn old."

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir," said the Potter lad. I hope this was his last war, just like mine.