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Milk. All I want is milk. Fresh cold milk. It's funny how that's what I think about. I can't remember the last time I had anything to drink. I try to keep track of the days and nights in here. It's hard. I only see daylight through a small crack in the hatch. I have no idea where I am or who else is here with me. I heard voices for a while, but not for what has to be at least a day or two.
All I know is I am in a hole in the ground with a hole to pee and shit in. I still can't remember what happened.
The burns on my legs are beginning to stink. Maggots are in the wound on my left leg. I picked out the shrapnel, but I have nothing to keep the maggots out. I guess they are the closest thing I have to antibiotics. The blood on my head finally slowed down and has stopped dripping to my eyes. I don't dare touch my forehead because I fear how bad the wound may be. I know head injuries tend to bleed more, but this feels worse than just a flesh wound.
I go through the list of names of the guys in my truck; Rodriguez, Simmons, and Grant. I call out for them again. "Rodriguez, Simmons, Grant!" This becomes the chant I repeatedly repeat until I am so tired and thirsty that I shut my eyes again and try not to pass out.
'God, a glass of milk is all I want right now,' I silently thought.
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