Janet deserves a lot of praise:
Amid a war's horrors, soldiers met an angel
An officer pointed Price out to Collins. She walked straight to his bed.
Price felt his gut tighten with nervousness. But he knew he had to say something. Gosh, he blurted out, you're even prettier than your pictures.
Collins laughed and held out her hand. Price looked down at it. In her palm she held the latest issue of Playboy magazine. The first of the Bravo Bulls' lifetime subscription. She had traveled 8,000 miles to deliver it. Looking at Price's broad smile, she was glad she had come.
The next moments were a blur to Price. Keggi had doped him up to dull the throbbing pain in his left arm. He knew he was talking to Collins and knew she was talking to him, but later, when he had a chance to recall their meeting, he couldn't think of anything they talked about. He couldn't even remember if he kissed her.
In minutes, she was off. She wanted, she said, to visit the other men in the ward. As Keggi watched, she walked from bed to bed, stopping long enough to chat with each of the wounded soldiers. Some asked for her autograph and she obliged. Others asked her to help them finish letters they were writing home. She took up a pen and wrote a few lines. Others simply asked if she would light their cigarettes. Certainly, she said.
Keggi looked around at all the men, some of whom had propped themselves on their elbows to better stare silently at Collins. All of them were smiling.
Keggi had seen generals and senators come through the ward many times. None of them, he thought, had ever done as much good as this 20-year-old woman. She spoke softly and soothingly, perfectly at ease among the bloody dressings and bandaged limbs. She asked the men questions about their lives and chatted casually with them. The men, some of whom had earlier been groaning in pain, looked happy and relaxed. They treated her politely, almost, it seemed, with reverence.
A nurse hurried over to Collins. There's a wounded man who wants to see you, the nurse said before turning away. Collins stood up and rushed to keep up with her.
The nurse stopped beside a stretcher. On it lay a soldier who looked as if he had fallen into a meat grinder. His uniform, caked in blood, was ripped to shreds. His entire body looked as if it had been cut open. His life was ebbing away.
The chain of events that Price had set in motion had led Collins to the soldier. The M-16 rifles that jammed, Price's solution, his platoon's request, his letter to Hugh Hefner, Futch's quest for publicity, even the Oregon state trooper's search for her - everything had brought her here to this broken, bleeding man.
An unknown chain of events, far more terrible, had brought him to her.
Collins looked down at him, and tears pooled in her eyes.
Sweetheart, the dying soldier said with a struggle, I've been waiting to see you.
Collins choked back a sob. Then, just before the soldier closed his eyes on the world, he exhaled, and, looking at Collins, caught a final glimpse of its beauty.