The Wounded Soldier

by Sterling Meeuwen

The company had nearly been over run when the alarm was sounded. Carl, was what most people would consider a big, dumb, hick, from south of the Mason-Dixon line. He did fit that description like a glove. He was a simpleton and had only been two places in his short life, the little town he was born in and this god forsaken land.


When he heard the order to retreat he picked himself up out of the mud and headed towards the rear. As he lumbered through the muck, being pushed around by the other soldiers frantically trying to make an escape, he came across a soldier, wounded, lying in a crater. The soldier explained that his foot had been blown off by a grenade and the rest of his squad had left him behind. He pleaded with Carl to carry him back to the aid station. Carl, not wanting to leave a live man behind for the enemy to find, picked him up and pressed on to the rear.


As the pair headed through mud, mortar fire began to reign down on them and a shell exploded very near to Carl, knocking him to the ground.  The bells were still ringing in his ears when Carl raised up and continued on, the wounded soldier still on his back. Carl assured the other the whole time that they were going to make it but, the other soldier gave no reply.


When Carl had finally made it to the rear he was stopped by an officer.

“Private! Where are you going with that body!?”

“Huh? To the aid station sir, this man’s wounded.”

“Private, this man has no head!”

Carl dropped the carcass and stared at it blankly for a moment.

“Well Sir, he told me it was his foot.”