Just a memory from my stay in the hospital, modified to fit into Watson's experience in Afghanistan. In reality it was the patient next to me in the recovery room after my frontal surgery. The nurse assured me that the patient would be all right, it's just the anestseia makes some people kinda weird. She also said it was sweet of me to be so concerned. How could I not be? The line at the end is the same thing my surgeon said when he checked up on me and overheard the patient crying out. The words were directed at the nurse.
People were crying out in pain. "Oh, God, oh God, Mama, Mama," Over and over again. Sometimes there was just wordless cries of agony, then the poor souls would again cry out to God, and for their mothers. Watson ached to help them, but he was no longer a doctor but a patient himself. He felt like screaming himself. Perhaps he already was, it was hard to tell. Were those cries his? Some of them might be, but the others-there were definitely others-those people he should help. But he could not. Nor could he block out their cries. Those cries would follow him into his dreams, and haunt him for years to come.
Just then Watson heard new voices, those of the other doctors. They were talking about his state of health, his chances for survival. Another loud cry of "Mama!" changed the course of the conversation. "It never changes. No matter who it is or what language they speak, they always cry out for their mothers."