Chapter 17

Traff felt hands on his body, pulling roughly at the neck of his shirt. He had neither the strength not the ability to stop them. His body had shut down and now all he could do was lie on the ground and await his fate. The hands had gotten to their destination now and he felt his dog tags pulled free of his uniform.

'Aww hell, they're our boys. Get 'em assessed quick huh?' he heard a voice ordering.

Now other hands were on him and weakly he turned his head sideways to see that two other soldiers in full battle dress were working their way slowly and carefully over Starsky's limp form too. He closed his eyes and submitted to the exploration, too relieved and weary to say anything or help in any way.

'This one's in a real mess Sir. Looks like he's had some pretty rough treatment. Tags say he's a Corporal with the 8th Light. He needs hospital care right now or he's a goner'.

Traff's own soldiers concurred. 'Exhaustion here and I think he may have malaria too. They both need to get out of here right now Sir'.

Traff summoned his remaining strength. 'Together' he managed to grunt. He opened his eyes and looked into earnest brown ones above him. The face containing the eyes smiled back at him. 'We'll get ya back Sir. How long have you been out here?'

'Dunno…..six days?' Traff responded weakly. 'Where….?'

His young saviour grinned. 'The road's thirty yards thataway' he pointed west. 'Where d'ya come from?'

Traff felt the world shimmying around him, but he felt it important to get the last little bit of information out. 'Nah Am'.

'Shit….sir! That's a helluva a journey' he heard the young soldier whistle as Traff finally succumbed to his exhaustion.

oOo

'Well good morning Tom, or should I say Captain Trafford?'

The older doctor dressed in standard Army greens looked down at the sleep befuddled man.

'Huh?'

The doctor sat down. 'I'm sorry. Let me explain. My name's doctor Burton. You're at the 7053rd MASH and you and your friend have been here for 4 days. While you were wiling your time away in the land of nod, your CO has been contacted and he tells me to tell you that you've both been promoted for acts of bravery in the face of combat. I have the honour of addressing Captain Trafford. Captain Starsky is laid over there in the corner'.

Traff closed his eyes, a thousand thoughts streaming through his head. They'd made it. They were out of the jungle and safe. Starsky was right here with him and still alive. Sharpe had been in touch and they'd both been promoted!...Wait a minute. Was that deserved, or was Sharpe trying to soften the blow? Was this done out of guilt for what he'd put his men through? Did he think he could buy them off so damned easily?

'How's Curly?' he managed to rasp out. His head felt stuffed full of wool, but the pounding had gone. He felt hot, but at the same time so much more comfortable than he had……4? Sheesh!…..4 days ago. 4 days of his life just lost to sleep and fever. Who'd have thought?

Burton's face turned more serious. 'Well I won't lie. For the first three days we didn't think he'd make it. The guys who brought you in said you were coming from Nah Am?'

'S'right'.

'And he was held there? For how long?'

'I think about two months' Traff answered, felling the life returning to him a little.

'Then that explains a lot. He's not in good shape. The torture he endured has left him with a life threatening infection throughout his body. He may still lose some of his fingers and toes. He had other infected wounds; burns, cuts, some abscesses. He's severely underweight. I would estimate he usually weighs around 150 - 160 pounds? He weighed in at just 102 pounds when he came in here. His shoulder was dislocated and he has severe pneumonia. He hasn't been conscious yet, but I think we will have to deal with his mental state as well'.

Traff hitched a breath. 'Is he gonna make it?' he asked in a small voice. He was almost angry that after hauling himself and his buddy through God knows what infested jungle, Curly might still have the temerity to die! What was that all about? He was supposed to live happily ever after. He was supposed to be sitting up in bed, laughing and joking, just like the old days. Breaking him out of the camp was supposed to be the end of the whole saga. Now, it seemed, the escape was just the beginning. A single tear broke loose and trickled down his cheek and he snuffed angrily and wiped it away, unsure whether he was crying for himself or for his friend. God he was so fuckin' screwed in his head!

Burton knew his patient was still weak and tired.' Aren't you going to ask about yourself?' he asked gently.

'What? Oh…right. So tell me Doc….'

'You have exhaustion, you're malnourished, dehydrated and you have a hefty dose of malaria. We have you on chloroquin drips and you need to drink plenty. I think you'll find you have recurrent fevers for quite some time, but at the moment we have them fairly well under control'.

'Can I see him?'

'Captain, are you listening to me? You are sick. You're a sick man and you need to rest. Do I need to make that an order?'

'Can't rest till I've seen him. I went through hell and high water to get him outa there. We've been mates since basic training. Please Doc, can I?' Traff pleaded. He had an unaccountable urge to be by Starsky's side, as though somehow being close would make the brunet pull through all the quicker.

Burton smiled. 'What am I gonna do with you, huh? Wait there Captain and I'll have a corpsman move your bed next to your friend. But try not to disturb him. He needs to heal…..and so do you'.

True to his word, Burton had Traff's bed moved next to Starsky's, but seeing his friend lying there so helplessly made him feel worse and more frustrated rather than better. He waited until the small tented ward was devoid of nursing staff, the eased his legs out of bed and fighting the dizziness and weakness, perched on the edge of the small bunk bed next to him.

Starsky's eyes were closed, his face ashen. Bruises showed up darkly against the pale skin which looked clammy and damp. There were drips feeding into each arm and the hands from wrist to finger tips were bandaged with white gauze. White dressings also decorated the torso, covering large areas where Traff knew there had been infected burns and cuts. Other bandages surrounded his arms in places where rope contusions had suppurated and Starsky's left arm was bandaged across his chest to rest and support the reduced dislocation of his shoulder. The soldier knew there would be more bandages beneath the sheet and blanket that covered his friend. He had an impulse to pick up the shattered body and hold it, willing life back into it. This felt so much like an anticlimax after the week in the jungle. They were supposed to sit up in bed and joke and everything would be ok again. But instead Traff felt lonely and angry. He sighed.

'Come back to me Curly. I know ya can hear me. I need you Chief. I just want to hear your voice again huh? I just….just help me? Otherwise what's it all been about huh?' He sank to his knees by the bedside, his hands till holding Starsky's arm. And that was where the nurses found him half an hour later, moaning as another fever took him and made him sweat and shake. Tenderly they placed him back in his bed and administered more chloroquin and sedative and soothed away the hurts.

oOo

Over the course of the next week, Traff started to improve enough that he was able to get out of bed for periods and wander round the MASH compound. It was a simple, tidy camp with a mess tent, various sleeping tents, latrines and a shower complex which dispensed hot water for half an hour every day. The days and nights were interrupted by the loud sounds of copters coming and going, delivering and collecting the wounded and Traff was amazed at the fortitude of the doctors and nurses who worked incredibly long hours round the clock. He was still weak and there were days, or parts of days which were given over to shivering and sweating and fighting the cramps in his guts until the massive doses of anti malarial drugs took effect, but he was going to pull through and he was back in the land of the living, doing normal things….or as normal as anything could be in the pointless conflict.

And on the morning of the eleventh day since he'd been there, he woke in his bed and started at the ceiling, then rolled over onto his side to check on his friend. For the past ten days, Starsky had remained lifeless almost, unmoving and unresponsive. The doctor had told him that every ounce of the brunet's energy was going into the healing process and that only time would tell whether he'd pull through or not, although he had youth and vigour on his side.

Now, Traff sat up and made his way over to the simple bunk, as was his habit, sitting down and stroking the chocolate curls that had grown back riotously over the three months since his friend had been taken.

'Time for a barber's visit, I think' he chuckled as his hands carded the curls affectionately. 'It aint exactly regulation Curly'. He was just about to get up to go get a wash when he felt, rather than saw a tiny response. Looking closely, he saw the brunet's eye twitch, then slowly, a sliver of indigo appeared. The sick man's head rolled weakly on the pillow and he licked dry, cracked lips.

'Fuck….reg'lations' he whispered softly.

'Curly? You're back! Oh my God, you're back! Nurse!...Doc, he's back, he's….oh shit he spoke….he's back' Traff yelled to no-one in particular and everyone in general. Burton and Candy, one of the nurses came running and elbowed Traff out of the way gently so that they could get to their patient. Over the next 15 minutes, they poked, prodded, listened and generally examined the young man and at the end of it, Starsky was once again asleep, but Burton had a grin on his face.

'That guy is one helluva fighter! I think he's gonna make it. I really do. He needs rest still, and his healing has a long way to go, but I think he's gonna pull through'.

Traff sat on his bed and grinned. He thought he should feel elated. He thought he should be laughing and dancing up and down the ward, kissing the nurses and making a fool of himself. But all he wanted to do was to sit quietly, cherishing the moment and hugging it to him. Curly was going to make it! He could breathe easy for the first time in so many months. His friendship was strengthened, his friend was going to make it and he was happy. A quiet, happy euphoria held him as he lay back and smiled.

From then on, things started to look up. Over the next 48 hours, the brunet started to wake up for longer periods of time, although he was still looped on pain killers and when he slept, his dreams were all painful and terrifying. But he was back; he was going to make it and he was glad to have Traff with him.

Starsky didn't have words to express his gratitude to his friend. What other man would have fought through the leech infested jungle for almost a week to bring him back to safety? He was sure he would never be able to repay that act of heroism, although he'd make damned sure that he tried.

But for now, Starsky was happy to be safe, looked after and with friends. He had nightmares where General Mai came to him and dragged him away to start the maltreatment over and again, but Traff was always there, waking him and giving him a drink until he'd calmed enough to roll over and drift back to sleep.

And slowly and surely, he started to heal.