Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you. - Unknown
The others knew about it, of course. He'd been brought back to them midday, dropped just inside the cage. There was little they could do, other than use what rags they had to stop the bleeding. They escaped that night.
He'd been lucky. Very lucky. Had the cut been a little to the left or right, a little longer or a little deeper, and he would've had no chance. That's what the doctor at the field hospital said. He'd also apologized, unnecessarily, for not being able to stitch it up better. The wound had simply been too jagged for a 'neat' scar.
Grateful they were all at least healing, no one thought any more about it. Not until that day at the river.
They'd had a few days R&R left before returning to active duty. They hadn't felt like doing anything other than going somewhere relatively safe, just wanting to stop thinking for a while. They'd met up with some other Americans - REMFs. Hannibal insisted the team 'play nice' - mainly because there were a few females there as well, but also because nobody wanted to end up in the stockade for their precious days off.
Things went well for the first couple of days. The team mostly lay on the shore, dozing. There was some good-natured teasing about that, but thankfully the other guys seemed to understand the difference between teasing and disrespect. But then it got hotter, the team got more energetic, the water seemed more inviting, and the REMFs came up with some actually drinkable beer.
Quite a bit of actually drinkable beer.
All things considered, it wasn't surprising that most of the group ended up skinny-dipping, clothes randomly tossed on the shore. The team, still too fresh from the camp, went only as far as their skivvies but joined in the wet frolicking.
And then somebody, nobody knew exactly who, decided the team needed to get more fully engaged. The colonel, of course, was strictly off limits, and no one wanted to go after BA. Murdock was snoozing in the shade of a large tree with a couple of equally modest females. That left Face.
He was standing with a small group near the shore, the water lapping just above his knees. He was talking to a young woman, trying his best to keep his eyes on her face, and had no idea what was coming. Suddenly he felt the hard tug as his shorts were yanked down.
The people behind him were laughing. The woman he'd been talking to went pale at the sight of the still reddish gash on his groin.
Face grabbed for the shorts, struggling to pull them up while rushing for the shore. It took only moments before Hannibal and BA were beside him, BA shoving startled and embarrassed people of both genders out of their way. Murdock was already gathering their clothes, and the four were in their Jeep, heading back to base in minutes.
They spent the rest of their R&R in the hotel room, drinking and pretending nothing had happened.
The guys ignored the fact that Face wouldn't shower without at least one of them nearby. They heard, through the female grapevine, about his habits on dates. He wouldn't undress unless all the lights were out. The women thought it either erotic or romantic, but definitely didn't mind. But they were disappointed when they would wake up in the morning and he was gone.
Some habits stayed with him. Others developed during their time on the run. He never stayed with any one woman very long. It wasn't just because of the fugitive thing. Too long with a woman meant, literally, too much revealed. And though the scar faded with time, he knew it was still there. Would always be there.
And he would always remember that river.