They always scream right when I come.
It never fails. The moment I sit down, there's always a terrible cry from inside. Granted, there are screams from there pretty often, but Christ, every fucking time I sit down, right at that at exact fucking moment? It wouldn't be so bad if it didn't always happen right at that moment. It ruins the sit. People ask me why I always sit near the emergency ward tent. Damn fools, I don't sit here because it's by the tent, I sit here because it's the only tree in the place. Don't they understand a nice sit under a tree?
Screams again, but I got it now. It's Williams. No surprise, he's been at it since he came in. Poor bastard found out his wife cheated on him, so went on a sweep hoping for death. Wussed out partway through, ran into a village. Raped a peasant girl, then decided he wanted to die again. Didn't quite get his wish, just got his legs blown off. Now he screams every night, half the time begging for help, half the time begging to be killed. And they call me the idiot.
Well, I should be more precise. Idiot savant is the phrase used. You know who I mean. The middle-aged, unemployed loser who can count the exact number of beans in a can at a glance. The failing student with ADD who can walk by a building and draw it perfectly accurately a month later. The drooling, retarded guy who can factor a ten-digit number into its primes in a second. Fucked-up people with some weird talents. I got mine. That's why I'm here.
I joined the army three years back, enlisted in hospital crew. Nothing better to do, didn't want to shoot or be shot at... as much. War's done, but the hell isn't over. Armies pull out, but they leave their shit there. Mines everywhere. Thousands of innocents are killed each year in demilitarized zones with leftover mines, quote the experts. The backwards villagers are all happy about our hospital. Fuck, it's the least we can do.
Anyway, as I was saying, I have a talent. Given the location of a few mines, I can visualize the array of the rest of them. They bring me out on sweeps to help the saps with the mine detectors. I give them the coordinates I think, they find them. I can pinpoint every mine in a whole field given just a few knowns. Call that idiocy? No, that's talent. They call me an idiot because they think I'm slow, autistic or something. I'm just quiet. What the fuck is there to say?
Damn, there's the colonel. I just sat down. He's babbling out instructions like I don't know the drill.
"You got that, you 'tard?" Why does he have to scream everything?
"Yeah."
"Well, then go get Archibald and get the hell out there."
I hated Archibald. He'd just lead us to some settlement to fuck all the damn peasants whose husbands got their dicks blown off.
"No. I'll take Kershwin."
"Fine, bring your man, you faggot."
Well, at least he left. Best go find Kershwin. Wait, here he comes. Good guy, always knows where I am.
"Hey, you ready?" He already had his mine detector, too.
"Always. You good for it?"
"No choice, man. Let's go."
I like Kershwin, he talks to me. I talk to him. Soon we were out in the field. Mud, mud, mud. And mines. Just had to find them.
"Got one!" Kershwin lifted his hand. I nodded, though he didn't see or hear. He kept on the headset, wandering about, marking two more for me. Then he set his stuff down and waited. I thought for about a second.
"You got the map?"
"Sing for me, Sinatra."
I rattled off coordinates, pointed out places, gave him the usual. Within a few minutes the whole mud field was mapped out. On paper, anyway. We still had to go double check. Kershwin looked nervous. He always did, though. Can't blame him. Sometimes I'm wrong.
It never fails. The moment I sit down, there's always a terrible cry from inside. Granted, there are screams from there pretty often, but Christ, every fucking time I sit down, right at that at exact fucking moment? It wouldn't be so bad if it didn't always happen right at that moment. It ruins the sit. People ask me why I always sit near the emergency ward tent. Damn fools, I don't sit here because it's by the tent, I sit here because it's the only tree in the place. Don't they understand a nice sit under a tree?
Screams again, but I got it now. It's Williams. No surprise, he's been at it since he came in. Poor bastard found out his wife cheated on him, so went on a sweep hoping for death. Wussed out partway through, ran into a village. Raped a peasant girl, then decided he wanted to die again. Didn't quite get his wish, just got his legs blown off. Now he screams every night, half the time begging for help, half the time begging to be killed. And they call me the idiot.
Well, I should be more precise. Idiot savant is the phrase used. You know who I mean. The middle-aged, unemployed loser who can count the exact number of beans in a can at a glance. The failing student with ADD who can walk by a building and draw it perfectly accurately a month later. The drooling, retarded guy who can factor a ten-digit number into its primes in a second. Fucked-up people with some weird talents. I got mine. That's why I'm here.
I joined the army three years back, enlisted in hospital crew. Nothing better to do, didn't want to shoot or be shot at... as much. War's done, but the hell isn't over. Armies pull out, but they leave their shit there. Mines everywhere. Thousands of innocents are killed each year in demilitarized zones with leftover mines, quote the experts. The backwards villagers are all happy about our hospital. Fuck, it's the least we can do.
Anyway, as I was saying, I have a talent. Given the location of a few mines, I can visualize the array of the rest of them. They bring me out on sweeps to help the saps with the mine detectors. I give them the coordinates I think, they find them. I can pinpoint every mine in a whole field given just a few knowns. Call that idiocy? No, that's talent. They call me an idiot because they think I'm slow, autistic or something. I'm just quiet. What the fuck is there to say?
Damn, there's the colonel. I just sat down. He's babbling out instructions like I don't know the drill.
"You got that, you 'tard?" Why does he have to scream everything?
"Yeah."
"Well, then go get Archibald and get the hell out there."
I hated Archibald. He'd just lead us to some settlement to fuck all the damn peasants whose husbands got their dicks blown off.
"No. I'll take Kershwin."
"Fine, bring your man, you faggot."
Well, at least he left. Best go find Kershwin. Wait, here he comes. Good guy, always knows where I am.
"Hey, you ready?" He already had his mine detector, too.
"Always. You good for it?"
"No choice, man. Let's go."
I like Kershwin, he talks to me. I talk to him. Soon we were out in the field. Mud, mud, mud. And mines. Just had to find them.
"Got one!" Kershwin lifted his hand. I nodded, though he didn't see or hear. He kept on the headset, wandering about, marking two more for me. Then he set his stuff down and waited. I thought for about a second.
"You got the map?"
"Sing for me, Sinatra."
I rattled off coordinates, pointed out places, gave him the usual. Within a few minutes the whole mud field was mapped out. On paper, anyway. We still had to go double check. Kershwin looked nervous. He always did, though. Can't blame him. Sometimes I'm wrong.