Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say –

These wounds I had on St Crispin's Day. Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day.

I.

Hands scrabble frantically at his collar.

"Mac, Mac…"

"Hold still!"

Amidst flailing hands, he pushes down hard as more liquid oozes between shaking fingers. It puddles beneath his hands, leaks over the edge, and warmly soaks into the knees of his green fatigues.

"Can't feel my legs Mac, can't feel them. They still there? Mac, are my legs still there?"

"Yeah, yeah they're here," he looks over his shoulder for the medic. "Both of them, right here."

"Oh God, help me."

"Where the hell are they?"

"Mac!"

"Shit, will you shut up?" His elbows give way and he almost pitches forward into the red mess that is his friend. Hastily, he straightens back up and tries to scoop the slime back in. There is sand in his gut.

"Medic!"

"I don't wanna die, Mac-"

"Shut the fuck up and don't move. Medic!" He feels his own hysteria slither up his spine. "The hell is taking them so long?"

"Don't wanna die, I don't wanna die. God, I'm scared, I don't wanna die…"

Grimy hands grip his own as the man beneath him starts to cry.

II.

When they reach him, the body is still warm, only just cooling at the extremities. He sits back on the sand and watches mutely as the overworked medics cover the body and drag it off on a piece of tarp.

"Damn it, Taylor, get your ass over here and make yourself useful."

He stands on feet not quite his own and stumbles past body bags toward his unit commander, hands unconsciously wiping off blood and puke and sand. It would not be until they haul out the second screaming soldier from under the rubble that his vision goes white and the ground unexpectedly connects with the side of his head.

III.

They ask if he wants to keep it as a souvenir; his very own twisted, bloodied badge of courage. All he can feel are the needle points where the stitches have run through and the dry cracks of charred skin under the scratchy gauze. He tells them no, and is glad when they finally shrug noncommittally and walk away.

From where he lies, he can barely make out the shell of their headquarters against the glare of the mid-morning sun. He absently calculates that today is hash and beans day. He likes hash, even badly-burnt peacekeeping hash. The new cooks do it better than their predecessors. He's seen them up and bustling about in the building at 0600 in the morning. Normally, you could smell the frying at slightly past 0630.

They didn't get breakfast today, he solemnly realizes.

He closes his eyes, breathing shallow to avoid inhaling blood and sickness, and tries to remember how it ought to have been.

IV.

They serve him his papers - honorable discharge due to expiration of enlistment and completion of tours of duty. True to his word, once a Marine always a Marine, his name goes down on the IRR list. They will find him when they need him.

As he walks out the door, Tomlinson claps him on the shoulder with his good arm.

"Semper Fi, Mac."

His returning smile loses humor and stretches into a grimace that pulls lines of regret across his face.

"Semper Fi, mac. We'll always have Beirut."