Richard Stroquer's Journal

(0-3) Hello Vietnam!
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Downtime

Post Op #1: M.A.S.H

The harbinger was kind enough to drop me off at some U.S. military hospital in Thailand—burned-out helipad, buzzing fluorescents, the works. I don’t remember the landing. I do remember the pain kicking back in the second they pulled my makeshift oxygen rig off. Screaming wasn’t really an option with one lung full of blood and the other working overtime.

The surgeon looked at me like I was some kind of lunatic when I told him how I’d kept myself breathing. I asked if I could keep the rock fragments they pulled out—he said no. Bureaucracy.

They shoved a chest tube in, stitched me up, and pumped me full of enough drugs to make the walls breathe. I woke up handcuffed to the bed—standard protocol, apparently, when you’re dropped off by an unmarked helicopter with no passport, no ID, and a duffle bag full of explosives residue.

I told them I was CIA. They believed me.

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