At the most forward aid station outside Orgon Tal, where he sat with so many others waiting to be attended to, Aussie was already comforted by a medic telling him that his injury was a flesh wound, that he’d lost some blood and the shoulder would be badly bruised for a while but that he’d be all right once they stitched him up. A half hour later Alexsandra Malof, one of the few prisoners to survive the FAV attacks against the guns, was ushered in by a corporal. Aussie instinctively made room for her by him, patting the bench. Someone whose pain had got the better of him asked in a loud voice when they were going “to get out of this fucking dump.”
“Hey!” Aussie shouted, the effort hurting his shoulder, but he got everyone’s attention. “Watch the language, lads. Lady present.” He offered her the rest of his coffee, and she accepted. “Must forgive the lads, miss,” Aussie said. “They use a lot of foul language I’m afraid. Don’t go for it myself.” He extended his right hand. “Name’s Aussie Lewis.”
Alexsandra nodded. “I am Alexsandra Malof.”
Her very breathing excited him, and he watched her breasts rise and fall in a unison that mesmerized him. Finally he told her, “They’re sending us back to Khabarovsk for a bit of R and R — rest and recreation.”
“Oh yes,” she said.
“So how about you?”
“Khabarovsk also.”
“That a fact? Look, maybe we could have dinner.”
“Perhaps.” She liked the soldier’s easy friendliness, his openness, and he did not seem as uncouth as some of the others. Someone came in swearing about getting “fucking sand in my fucking contacts.”
“Hey! Hey!” Aussie said. “Enough of that!”
David Brentwood shook his head disbelievingly, causing his cheek to bleed more. “I can’t stand it,” he told Choir.
“How about Olga?” somebody asked Aussie.
Lewis affected complete puzzlement, frowning. “Olga— Olga who?”
“A bird in the hand, eh, Aussie?” another of the wounded SAS/D troopers said.
Aussie shook his head as if he’d been deeply hurt, explaining softly to Alexsandra Malof, “They’re very uncouth.”
“Like most soldiers, I suppose,” she said.
Aussie sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.”
“Do you think there will be more fighting?” she asked him.
“All depends, I suppose, on whether the Chinese want to come to terms with the U.N. or not.” He paused. “I heard someone say you had a pretty bad run — I mean a bad time with the Chinese.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “And the Siberians.” But he could tell she didn’t want to talk any more about it. “Oh well,” he told her, “it’s over now, Sandy. When we get back to Khabarovsk and have that dinner let’s not talk about it.”
“Yes,” she said warmly. “That would be wonderful.”
David Brentwood was still shaking his head. “I can’t stand it.”