Broken Soldier (Book One), Page 2

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  His fishing line jerked slightly, bringing him out of his daydream. A trout nibbled at the fly and spit it out, before hitting it hard. Mike instinctively pulled on the rod, sinking the hook firmly in the fish’s jaw. He had to allow the fish to run with the line. If he didn’t, the powerful trout would snap the thin line, or more likely, yank his mouth free of the hook.

  But Mike was an experienced trout fisherman and he loved to play a fish. He enjoyed the game of give and take, before he reeled it in. Once he had it in his net, he looked at it and announced, “Welcome home big boy.” Then he dumped it in his creel and attached a new fly to the end of his line.

  After two more fish had joined their brothers in his basket, he carefully withdrew from the water and sat on a felled tree trunk to remove the waders he wore. His prosthetic legs fit nicely into them, but it was hell getting them out. With several fishing trips under his belt, he had given up on trying to pull the artificial legs out of the tight fitting rubber waders. With the prosthetic limbs still inside the waders, he detached each one, and then took his time removing them from the boot portion of the wader.

  As he reattached his artificial legs, the continuing muscular atrophy of his right leg made getting a good fit with the prosthetic difficult. He mumbled, “Looks like it’s time to get another leg fitted. Damn I hate going to the VA hospital for that. I’ll be waiting in line for hours, just to get it sized, and then I’ll have to go back for a final fit. Sometimes I wish the damn suicide bitch had killed me. It would have made things easier for everyone.”

  He chastised himself for such thoughts. His son would certainly disagree and so would his late wife.