As If Losing an Arm Weren't Bad Enough

Posted on Thu 30th Aug, 2018 @ 6:34am by Lieutenant Colonel Brooklyn Wellington & Commander Paul Graves PsyD & Brigadier General Franklin Sinclair

1,558 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Oblivion
Location: Main Infirmary
Timeline: MD11

Franklin Sinclair entered Sickbay--he still called it that in his mind, even though he wasn't on a ship--and remembered the first time he'd come there to see Brooklyn Wellington after her dogfight with the Orion pilot. She'd lain in bed, silent and statue-still, swathed in dressings and tubing. She'd looked impossibly young as he'd stood at her bedside and held her remaining hand. On the other side of her bed, her tired-looking surgeon had uttered phrases like 'medically-induced coma,' 'depressed intestinal motility,' and 'possible short-term memory loss,' but those phrases had flitted past Sinclair's mind, their meanings lost in his own state of shock at what the pilots of her squadron had reported to him upon their return to 109 from patrol. He had simply nodded 'yes' to the surgeon, as if he'd understood, and the man had left the two of them alone.

He'd returned a few days later to find Wellington awake and speaking, but clearly not happy, not at all the woman he was used to speaking to. The counselors had advised him that this was grief talking and a normal reaction to losing a limb--as if he hadn't dealt with this exact same issue countless times before with other personnel under his command.

Today he walked past a small crowd of ensigns being quizzed by an Edoan physician about differential diagnoses for some other patient. They quietly moved out of his way, and Sinclair pressed forward, to knock on Wellington's door. "Anyone home?" he called out.

Wellington had finally been allowed to dress out of the patient gown that she had been wearing for nearly two weeks. The fresh clean, PT clothes that she had chosen had lifted her spirits some. Staring out of the window, she grimaced at the pain in her arm as she heard the voice of General Sinclair. "Depends. But I'm here if you need me, sir," she said turning to face the man.

Sinclair broke into a smile as he entered. "You look a hell of a lot better than you did, the last time I came in here. How are you feeling, Colonel?"

"Like shit, sir," she replied bluntly. "My arm hurts and I barely have any function in it and yet these damn doctors keep telling me it's normal."

"Physical therapy being a bear?" Sinclair asked.

"More like a wild Sehlat Cat," Wellington replied. "What brings you to see me, sir? Surely your time would be better suited to something other than visiting a broken pilot."

"You're not all that broken, anymore," Sinclair replied, "and you're a hell of a lot more appealing than talking to the media. Are you up for a walk?"

"Sure, but I'm not allowed out of the Infirmary...hopefully they will release me from this hell hole tomorrow, sir," Wellington stated.

"Good. I usually figure, when the patient's ready to go, it's time to let them," Sinclair said. They walked out of Wellington's room, away from the doctor and interns on rounds, and toward a sitting area that at least had plants in the corners and art on the walls. "Are you aware that there's to be an awards ceremony honoring some of the Marines three nights from now?" Sinclair asked.

"Yes, sir. I got a message from Lieutenant O'Malley about it," Wellington then narrowed her eyes at General Sinclair suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because you're one of the recipients, Colonel--and since you appear to be well enough, I'd like for you to be present."

"No," Wellington snapped. "I'm no damn hero, sir!"

"Of course you aren't," Sinclair replied. "No one worth their salt ever wants that label attached to them. We do our jobs; that's all. We do those things others hesitate to do--because we know they must be done, whatever the cost. I'm not asking you to accept an award because you're a hero, Colonel. I'm asking you to accept it because you earned it. Because of you, all of your fellow Marines and everyone else living on this base can sleep a little easier at night. Because of you, a danger to this base was eliminated, in detail. I'm not entirely happy that you destroyed an expensive fighter craft and your own body to do it, but the job needed to be done. I listened to the recordings of that enemy pilot's dialogue with you all. He clearly meant to kill, and he wasn't planning to back down. I just didn't expect you to run off with the bit in your teeth, raring to do it, quite so fast."

"If anything, sir. I didn't do it fast enough. Nearly an entire squadron was decimated--eight lives destroyed before I took action! How much longer was I supposed to wait?" she said, turning away from the general to stare out of the nearby window.

"Not fast enough?!" Sinclair gave Wellington an incredulous look. "Within minutes of Black Knight Squadron's pilots dying, you were in your Valkyrie, with us in your rear-view mirror. I'd say you were plenty fast enough. I'd have appreciated being told what you were about to do, but I also understand the need for swift action. That enemy was clearly throwing down the gauntlet. I'm just thankful you were good enough to take him out without dying, your own self."

Wellington remained quiet as she stared out the window, recalling the names of those lost to that bastard. She took a deep breath, fighting back tears. "If you say so, sir," she replied finally, her breathing ragged. "By all accounts, I should be dead."

"I do say so," Sinclair told her firmly. "Is that what weighs on your mind, that you couldn't get there in time to save them?"

"Losing eight of my Marines? You're damn right that's what weighs on my mind, sir," Wellington snapped. "And now the damn people on this base wants to label me a fucking hero?!" she now screamed as tears rolled down her cheeks. "To hell with them!" She gripped her new arm as the increased blood pressure from getting upset caused it to throb with pain.

"Brooklyn," Sinclair said quietly, "you lost eight of our Marines because some asshole with a fast ship, a cloaking device, and more balls than brains went after them like he was on a shooting spree--with no more reason than that. And then he dared you to take him on. Now the way I see it, by you taking him out, you kept that bastard from killing even more of us. He wasn't going to stop; I don't have a psych degree, but I could tell that much from the recordings. He was going to keep right on with it until someone stopped him. He didn't give a damn about you, the pilots he killed, or anyone here. You did the people of this base and your fellow Marines a great service, and you've paid a heavy price for it. That is why the civilians want to call you a hero and why they and the Marines want to honor your act in the only way most of them can."

"They can honor my act by leaving me the hell alone," Wellington replied through clinched teeth as the throbbing pain in her arm slowly subsided and soon letting out a long breath before collapsing into a nearby chair, cradling her new arm. 'You know he's right, Brook,' she thought to herself. Her mind went to Lieutenant Smith, whom she had first saved from a burning fighter shortly after she took command. He had never given up, despite severe burns, earning a field commission and graduating as a pilot.

"Honestly, I think you've spent enough time alone," Sinclair said. "I don't think you're entirely well, but I think you're well enough to be discharged to your quarters and light duty. As for the awards ceremony--unless the medics forbid it, I want you there, for the reasons I told you. I realize it will probably taste like bile in your throat, and I'm sorry about that." He shook his head. "It's never easy surviving when you've lost people under your direct command. I lost half my own squad once during the Dominion War. Like you, I didn't take that lightly."

Wellington shook her head, remaining quiet. She wondered how much more she could take physically and mentally. She hadn't even seen Khellian since the incident. Had he visited while she was unconscious? She sighed and grunted as she stood, facing the general. "Fine, I'll be there sir."

"Thank you, Colonel," Sinclair said. "I hate to ask this of you, but at least you won't be the only person in the hot seat. Another thing--You might be approached by Caroline Post for an interview. She's already inquired with me, and I've told her that I won't force you to speak to her. Whether you give her an interview is up to you. The ceremony is to be held at 1930 hours, two days from now in the casino auditorium, rehearsal at 1500. I intend to keep it short and snappy."

"Understood, general," Wellington replied. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, except to tell you, Brooklyn, I am very thankful you survived, and I hope, at some point, you'll come to feel that way, too."

Wellington simply nodded before heading back to her room.

 

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