Okay. . . here's part two (*coughs* two weeks later *coughs*) - the problem is that it got too long so it looks like there is going to be a part three. woops! ^^; Replies at the bottom Disclaimer: STASH is mine! Grrr. . . So is Alex(ander Dorian Coles II) *laughs*

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Soldier

Pain. It was the first thing I felt as I awoke. It was how I knew I was still alive. At least- I'd hoped so. The word Hell flashed briefly across my mind before my eyes opened. Or tried to open, that is; as far as I could tell, my right eye was restricted. I groaned weakly at own my inability to see and sluggishly I pulled my left hand upward toward my face. My fingers, sore from their voyage, felt across the surface of my nose, headed for my eye. Just as they came in contact with soft gauze, they were slapped away.

"Mr. Coles. What do you think you're doing?" A smooth voice interrupted me. "I'm glad that you're awake, but that's no reason to go and put yourself in any worse of a condition."

I lolled my head slowly in the direction of the voice before cracking my left eye open. My vision was hazy, but the color of a hospital was not one easily forgotten. White.

"Who're you?" I asked, my voice slurred with sleep. My lone eye traveled gradually up the white dressed form to a mop of bright red hair, and what I assumed was a peach-colored face.

"Miss Evans, but you may call me Charlene." Her lilting tones were soft, but her voice held an underlying tiredness to its pitch.

"Where am I?"

"The General Hospital in Saigon." The reply was short; nothing more and nothing less than required.

"Saigon? What-what happened?" I stuttered as my words caught on scratchy cough.

"You don't remember?" She sounded worried now, and her face, closer to my own now than before, contorted into a twisted version of cautious fright.

"I-I remember-" I coughed harshly; the insides of my throat burning as my lungs contracted.

"Oh! Water! Forgive me!" There was a loud rattle before a cup's contents sloshed over onto my shirt as Charlene tried to hold it steadily if front of me. A straw was then shoved quickly in my face- from which I sipped gladly: the cool water dousing the flames on its way down my esophagus. The cup was removed just as swiftly as it appeared after I'd finished.

"What do-" there was an interlude of silence before she continued, "what do you remember?"

"We were- there were more than we expected. Charlie was- we were headed up the Rach-River. They had an RPG." My voice was still abrasive to my own ears, but the words came out more easily. I closed my eye. Beneath my eyelids the scenes from the firefight blurred together, like an old movie, but the reel caught and stuck on my last vision. Stash. Across from me. In the dirt. He was scared- I realized that now.

A relived gasp sounded above me. My left eye flew open again, my vision somewhat clearer. Charlene had covered her face with her hands, and a choked sob emerged from between her lips.

I flushed, shamed. Had I done that to her? "Are you okay?" I asked promptly.

She gasped again, and her hands flew from her face. "Oh! H-heavens no! It's only- it's just. . ." she was still crying as she tried to assure me, "this is only my second week here." She seemed rushed to explain her situation. . . or perhaps she just wanted someone to talk to. "On my third day -here- in S-Saigon there was a soldier- my patient. He got shot in the head- it was only a flesh wound though- but when he awoke-" a few tears hit my chest as she leaned over my bed, trying to recoil within herself, "he couldn't remember- anything. He didn't know who or where he was. He didn't know about the war- it was terrible. He-he went into shock when he found out he had to go back. I just didn't want that to happen- again. . ." She trailed off, still sobbing gently.

"Shh, it's alright." My hand found its way awkwardly to her back, and I tried to comfort her as best I could.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be strong." She whispered brokenly.

"No- no, it's okay, it isn't your fault." My voice cracked again on the last few words. Charlene took notice and straightened up into a standing position, her hands wiping hastily at her wet cheeks. She reached again for the cup, but I swayed her hands away and nodded that I was fine.

"Do you-" her voice failed on a dismal sniffle, but she trudged on "- need anything, anything at all?"

Stash.

"My squad- one of my friends- Stash Larkin- is he. . ." I struggled with the words. He couldn't be. There was no way.

Her eyes, still red from their crying, crinkled up at the sides as a small smile finally lit her face. "He's here." She said softly.

I could breathe again, though I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath in the first place. Stash was alive. He was here. In the same hospital. It struck me suddenly, that I wouldn't have accepted any other answer. If Stash had. . . I couldn't even think about it. Wouldn't dare to think about. He was alive and that was what mattered.

"Can I see. . .?" I trialed off as her smile wavered. Instead her hands clenched tightly on my bed sheets.

"Not today," she replied shortly. "You're too weak." With that she turned, leaving the confines of the white curtain that blockade my bed from others, and swished it close with a sharp tug. I stared helplessly after her retreating form before I realized: Charlene couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. She was the same age as me, and yet it seemed horribly wrong that she was here, experiencing this. . . war. (1)

I lost track of time and eventually fell victim to sleep, lulled by the hushed murmuring that took place outside of the curtains. When I awoke Charlene was there, food tray in hand, and a remorseful smile on her face.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she spoke softly. "I didn't mean to be so rude. I'll take you to see your friend later. Right now you need to eat something." She lay the tray on the side table and helped me to sit up, though my ribs protested. Once I was situated she placed the food before me, allowing me to feed myself.

As I ate Charlene discussed my injuries. "Your right leg is broken in two places, probably from the impact. You also have a few minor burns and cuts along your side and back. The gauze around your head and eye is from a shrapnel (2) wound- it grazed the side of your face, and almost your eye." She got quiet as if debating something in her head. ". . .You'll live, and your broken leg is going to send you home-"

Home. That was something I hadn't heard in a while. I stopped processing her words as I imagined going back to The World (3). My family's farm in Tennessee. My sister Tessa, twelve years old, and my younger brother Matthew, fifteen. My parents.

Stash.

I blinked as a hand on my shoulder jolted me back into existence. Charlene was looking down at me, her smile crooked. "You really want to see him, don't you? Alright." It me a moment to realize I had said his name aloud. I nodded in compliance. Quickly she rotated on one foot, moving outside of the white curtains, and returning a moment later with a wheelchair. Getting me into the wheelchair, however, took two more nurses and ten minutes of strain on my part.

As I was pushed down a long white hallway, to what I guessed was another unit, Charlene grew quiet.

"I must warn you."

"What?" My voice was still rough from un-use.

She hesitated, seemingly troubled in how to continue. ". . .You're here because--. It was a Rocket Powered Grenade which exploded on a mine. You were facing away so you got fairly minor injuries. . . Your friend- he was facing the explosion."

My mind was ticking, but I couldn't put all of Charlene's words together.

"I. . .?"

"He. . . He's blind."

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Only three notes this time (gah!)
1. The vast majority of people who actually fought in the Vietnam war
were 17- 19 years old.
2. Shrapnel - Fragments from an exploded artillery shell, mine, or bomb.
3. "The World" - as in the United States - this was a common term and is
often used as a symbol of the 'distance' between the Vietnam War and
the U.S. homeland. (i.e. - "they want to get back to The World"- get
back to their lives, seen as "this is not real".)

Writer Saa- You're right the Vietnam War is a very depressing subject- and yet I feel the need to write something after reading about it. . . Thank you!

Okinawablossom0288- Look! It continues. . . and continues. . . and continues. . . heh! ^_^

My-own-sin- Thanks! You're right it was originally supposed to end with Alex dieing but I felt sappy and simply couldn't end it that way. . . --;;

The Inkslinger - You liked it? You really liked it?! *laugh-snort* Thank you! Now. . . what happened to Rotd? Hmm? *shakes finger* I do believe it has been two weeks. *tries to keep a straight face* Ah! Who am I kidding - you take as long as you want! *pats head* Wee. I just crack myself up. . . . . . . . um yeah, anyway- Stash is the name of my most recent 'muse' (I have another story with him as the main character that I've been working on but is on hold since it's longer than this one.), the name Stash means 'sunlight' or 'sun's rays' and it just *fit* with how I imagined the character. . . go figure. ^_^ Too Little Fish in the Sea is pretty much my version of the little mermaid (except, of course, slashed). It's probably going to only have three (to four) parts like this one. I've been working on it for a long time now - I've only got about 6,000 words, but I want it to be perfect so. who knows when that'll come out.

Please Review - it'll *really* help me to continue and get the last part out (where there might be some real-actual-SLASH!). Thanks!!