Page 117 of Cry Havoc
Tell me about Ella!
“How about your fingers?”
Another blast of burning neuropathic agony radiated through him.
“Good. Now, can you feel this,” the doctor said, running a pinwheel over his chest.
Once again, his body convulsed from the pain.
“These are all good signs, Petty Officer Reece.”
Tom attempted to talk again.
“Just breathe, son. A bullet hit the base of your skull. It traced a path of least resistance and hit the back of cervical one. That’s part of your spinal column. It shattered an arch but it’s one you don’t need to function. It lodged at the base of your brain stem and penetrated the lining of the dura around the base of your skull near your upper spinal cord. The shock to the spinal cord resulted in a temporary paralysis. It’s what we refer to as an ‘all or none injury.’ If you have movement at this stage, usually everything comes back. So that’s the good news. We did the surgery here because if that bullet shifted even two millimeters closer to the spine it would have killed you—paralysis and death from asphyxiation. But don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back in later today. I just wanted to be here when you woke up. Your vision will be back soon. I have two nurses and a physician’s assistant here. They are going to take good care of you. We willget that breathing tube out soon, and I’ll answer all your questions. You will be here for about eight weeks as you recover. You are on some pretty potent painkillers. You may experience some memory loss and confusion, but that should be temporary. You are a lucky man, Petty Officer Reece. Someone on high is protecting you.”
Tom saw a blurry figure step forward, and though it was hard to tell, it appeared that it was a woman. She injected something into his IV tube.
Ella?
Dr. Brenner returned just after the throat and nasal tubes were removed.
Tom blinked his eyes and returned to the land of the living. An IV remained in his arm.
“Good to see you are still with us, and if I dare say, improving.”
The doctor was dressed in blue scrubs and appeared to be in his late thirties, of average height and build, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
“This is Nurse Maxwell. She runs this floor and will be taking care of you.”
Tom shifted his eyes toward the other figure in the room, wincing again as a bolt of nerve pain shot down his spine. His first thought was that Nurse Maxwell should be in Hollywood, not Saigon. Radiant and captivating, her dark brown eyes also exuded a calm confidence. The silver lieutenant bars on her khaki uniform gleamed under the overhead light.
“I must be dreaming,” Tom muttered, his throat hoarse and sore.
“Just take it easy,” Dr. Brenner said. “It’s going to hurt to talk for a day or two, but you are going to be fine. How’s your vision?”
“It’s back,” Tom managed.
“That’s a good sign.”
“And your memory?”
Tom paused for a moment to collect himself.
He remembered walking into the Cercle Sportif. He was with a woman. She was waving to an older man at a table. Tom saw a waiter raise a Makarov pistol from under a white napkin and place it against the old man’s head. He remembered drawing his Browning and pushing the woman to the ground. He remembered death, more shooting, the chaos. He remembered rising to his feet and walking toward the table where the old man had fallen. He remembered one last scream.
Ella.
“What happened?” Tom asked.
“Somebody shot you.”
“I was with a woman. What happened to her?”
“You were brought in alone. I don’t have any other information. I’m sorry.”
Tom shut his eyes trying to remember.
“What caliber bullet hit me?”
