Gene lifted his bandaged leg. “Not too bad. They’re giving me that new penicillin we keep hearing about. Doc says I’ll have a couple weeks in a hospital in England, then back to the front. Sure hope they send me back to the Rangers.”

“Hope so too.”

“Remember that D Company LCA that sank? A lot of those fellows are here too.” He nodded down the row of cots lined up like sardines. “So is Sergeant Lombardi. He’s over there by the wall. They had to take off most of his leg though.”

Clay winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. He says you saved his life. Right now he’s real happy to be alive. Bet you feel the same.”

He should, so he smiled. But he felt . . . disembodied.

Dr. Rinehart squatted at the foot of Clay’s cot. What he lacked in hair, he made up for in smiles. “How are you this morning, Corporal?”

“See you later, Pax.” Gene hobbled away on his crutches.

Clay shot a glance upward. “You sailor boys know how to wake a man up, sir.”

“Those 14-inch guns are impressive, aren’t they?” Dr. Rinehart inspected a clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

“Doesn’t hurt as much as it should.”

“We gave you a nerve block during surgery. You already know why.” A big toothy grin.

“So I’ll breathe deeply and cough up secretions.”

“Are you doing that?”

“Yes, sir.” Clay deliberately took as deep a breath as he could, his bare shoulder blades rubbing the locker vents.

“Good.” He squeezed between the cots and inspected the large gauze bandage taped to Clay’s chest. “You’re one lucky man. The bullet missed the major vessels. You only have one broken rib, and it’s in the back. The initial surgery went well, and the X-rays show no retained foreign material. In about a week, you’ll have reparative surgery to close the wound. Barring any complications, you should be back to duty in six to eight weeks.”

“Complications—like infection.”

Dr. Rinehart nudged Clay to lean forward, and he inspected the dressings on Clay’s back. “Since there was no abdominal involvement, the risk of infection is low. With perforating thoracic—chest—wounds, the greatest risk is in the first few hours. Your prognosis is excellent.”

An excellent prognosis? Clay shook his head. His dream had come true, but he was alive. What had happened? Had he failed somehow by dodging that bullet?

Dr. Rinehart eased Clay back against the locker. “Everything looks great. I’ll look in on you this afternoon. In the meantime, keep doing the breathing and coughing exercises the pharmacist’s mate gives you. Any questions?”

“No, sir.” None the physician could answer anyway.

He felt discombobulated. What would he do with his life now that he had one? The problem with believing he had no future was that he had no plans.